Doppelganger
by ContemplatingUnderland
Summary: It's been seven years since the final battle and Harry is in the midst of a metamorphosis. Creature!fic. HP/DM
1. Falling

**Set after DH. Not epilogue compliant. **

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the Harry Potter series or any of its characters.

**Chapter One: Falling **

_ What's happening to me? _

Renowned Auror Harry Potter had been sitting at his desk, filling out his case report, when the question drifted into his mind yet again. It was quite a formidable inquiry, much too persistent to ignore. He gnawed at the end of a fresh quill, thinking about what had just happened. It was a routine sting operation, really: pose undercover as part of a Muggle persecution ring, catch them in the act and proceed to arrest. Honestly, there was no explanation for messing up such a simple mission with his level of experience. He was an awarded Auror, for Merlin's sake—how the hell could he screw up so horribly? The scene kept replaying itself in his head:

_ I walked in. _

Dressed in nondescript gray robes, Harry infiltrated their hideout in an abandoned glass factory. The group consisted of half a dozen men, all fresh out of school. Their leader was a loud-mouthed shopkeeper with a lazy eye, who used wide, sweeping gestures to emphasize points. Harry had finally earned his trust, having constructed his cover as an anti-Muggle enthusiast for months, using enough glamours to make him physically ill. All of his hard work set the stage for that night. The meeting would give the Ministry the evidence it needed to send the entire group to Azkaban once and for all.

_ I waited to take action. _

With him present, the gang planned to cast Fiendfyres in the lobbies of over twenty hotels in Muggle London. Having witnessed the criminal activity firsthand, Harry called in reinforcements and went on to Stun the leader. Soon, almost all of them were unconscious, the element of surprise against them. Then the youngest wizard took off in the confusion.

_ I had to go after him. _

He should've let the Aurors surrounding the building apprehend him, but he instinctually gave chase. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, his feet kicking up dust as he pounded the cement. He gained on the perp soon enough; the kid was just out of arm's reach when they burst through the service exit. The deranged light of the streetlamps cast an orange glow on the empty parking lot. Cars rusted away on cinderblocks and the crisp autumn air blew through the tall grass beyond the chain-link fence. The two of them were alone, no one around to stop the delinquent from clambering to freedom. The Aurors had yet to secure all the possible escape routes. Without pause, Harry fired a Stunner with dead accuracy. It hit the boy square in the back. He _knew _it hit; he saw it with his own eyes. The boy tumbled off of the fence, crashing into a pile of dry leaves with an explosive rustle. So _how did he get away? _

_ It doesn't make any sense! _He pulled his shaggy hair out of its ponytail, growling under his breath. _I Stunned the kid. I know I did. He fell _right_ in front of me. _

Unfortunately, that was as far as he could remember. According to the Aurors at the scene, they went around back to find Harry splayed on the ground, out cold. It seemed as though there wasn't even a struggle: the kid simply disappeared.

"Harry, you alive there, mate?" The frustrated Auror lifted his head from his desk, glaring at the ginger in the doorway. His partner chuckled, pointing out the parchment stuck to his forehead while strolling into the modest cubicle. He held a paper cup in each hand. "You still beating yourself up?"

"Ron, you don't understand. I had him," he hissed through clenched teeth. He tore the document off of his face, glancing at it before tossing it in the waste bin. It ate the paper with a satisfied belch.

"Yeah, I know," the young man offered a sympathetic smile and a cup of steaming coffee.

"Thanks," he took a gulp, searing his tongue. "Shit! Nothing is going my way tonight. Kingsley just handed my ass to me in his office; I hope you know that. Said if I made one more mistake like that, I'm doing desk work 'till Merlin knows when. He even suggested I go see a Healer about my 'fainting spells'. What the hell is that about?" He took another, more cautious sip of caffeine. "I don't need the whole department thinking I've gone soft, especially not today."

He glanced at his Quidditch-themed calendar hanging on his wall. Today's date was circled in harsh, red ink—October 30th. Tomorrow would be the anniversary of his parents' death; that alone had everyone tiptoeing past around him as if he were liable to collapse from grief. The whole idea absolutely reeked of absurdity, since he hadn't cried in over seven years.

"I don't get Kingsley, anyway. I mean, we caught the little punk eventually. I think all that power as Minister is going to his bald head," he grumbled, grimacing into his own drink. Rubbing away at his flaming red stubble, Ron worked himself into a friendly irritation. "You should petition him or something, Harry. That'd show him!"

Harry sighed, dropping his head back onto his papers. The office workers moved in a busy shuffle, with memos darting through the air. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the heady scent of ink, hazelnut coffee, and his own aftershave. He tried to drown his thoughts in Ron's rambling, and his mind was gloriously blank for a few, precious moments before—

_ What is happening to me? _

He resisted the urge to punch himself in the head, settling for grinding his teeth until he thought his jaw would give.

"I'm losing it," he whispered.

"What was that, Harry?"

He lifted himself out of his chair with another sigh, stretching his legs with a cringe worthy symphony of cracks and pops. Taking off his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose, he clapped Ron on the shoulder and turned him towards the door. "I said the coffee doesn't have enough sweetener. The break room is where I need to be right now."

"Oh." His best friend looked somewhat deflated. "Okay, well I'll go with you."

Harry shook his head. "I have reports left to finish, so I'll be here pretty late. Probably all night." He found himself lying more often these days. "You go home to Hermione and I'll be over tomorrow night."

"Sure. Alright, mate," Ron frowned. The silence between them was saturated with awkwardness. They both stared at their shoes, waiting for the other to make the first move. Ron seemed determined to hang around him with the discretion of a beached whale. How _does_ one tell his partner and best mate to go away without bruising his ego?

"Ron?"

If the excitable ginger had a tail, it would be wagging. "Yeah, Harry?"

"I'm fine." Ron smiled, the tension leaving his shoulders all at once. The statement seemed to assuage some unseen anxiety. With a relieved nod, his partner hurried back in the direction of his own cubicle with his hands deep in his pockets.

_There is definitely something wrong with me. I can't even look at myself in the mirror anymore. _As of late, it seemed as though even his reflection hated him. Whenever he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, even if he was in a relatively good mood, his reflection would be glaring back at him, accusing him. The experience was so unsettling, he'd taken to avoiding mirrors altogether.

Harry made his way to the break room at a slow pace, apologizing to co-workers as he bumped past them. It was near the end of their shift on a Friday, so the entire floor was in a hurry. Most of them were off to change clothes before going out drinking with friends, or perhaps doing last minute shopping for the Halloween office party the following evening. Unfortunately, his plans to work late that day were thwarted by his own fiery girlfriend. Ginny had insisted that they attend the party, going off on a tangent about how antisocial he's become.

_ Stop trying to spend every holiday alone, _she yelled in his face. _You're too famous to laze about on your couch while all of your friends are out, having a life. One night isn't going to kill you! _

One could say that little else peeved him more than her spoiled-little-sister attitude. Although, the image of her freckled face flushed in anger did wonders for his lousy mood. As horrible as he felt admitting it, keeping her from having her way incited a sadistic pleasure in the pit of his stomach.

_ Speak of the devil, _he thought to himself.

The Auror reached his destination at last, only to hear a hushed conversation between two, all too familiar voices. Not a fan of eavesdropping, Harry walked into the room, surprising the whispering pair. He didn't acknowledge them at first, though he made sure to slam the door with impressive force. He also took special care to sweep back his robes as he moved, to reveal his wand cradled in its shoulder holster. No one spoke, and when one of the pair headed for the door, Harry took the moment to spin around and catch him by his sleeve.

"Don't go just yet, Dean," he said with a chuckle. "I think you have something in your pocket for me."

The man in question swallowed thickly, avoiding eye contact. "I-I don't know what you're talking about, buddy." Even though Dean was noticeably taller than him, his reputation as the person to bring down the most dangerous man in Wizarding history placed him higher up on the food chain. Auror Thomas didn't fail to notice. "Really, Potter, I don't want any trouble."

"Quite frankly, neither do I, Thomas. So let's just handle this like adults and you hand over the piece of parchment you're hiding." Harry tightened his grip, feeling the tremors run up and down his fellow Auror's arm. He dragged the man further from the doorway, using his own body to block his path. He almost hoped that Dean would give him a reason to throw a punch; he could appreciate a serious fist fight right then.

"I don't have any—" The atmosphere in the room turned icy the moment Harry dropped his smile. Dean's legs shook something awful, so much so that Harry had to hold him up.

"It would really be in your best interest to hand it over," he interrupted. He met the terrified man's eyes and held his gaze like a snake watching its prey. That was all the motivation Dean needed to hand over the scrawled message that had been given to him not a few moments earlier.

Harry caught the front of his robes, dragging him down to eye level. "This is your last warning: stay away from my girlfriend." Dean Thomas headed straight to the door as soon as he was released. It nourished his shriveled self-confidence to see someone so afraid of him. Let Kingsley think what he wanted, Harry wasn't going soft in any sense of the word.

Without facing the guilty woman behind him, he examined the note in his hand. It read _"Keep in touch", _punctuated with hearts and Ginny's personal mailing address written underneath in looping scrawl. He stared at it for a long moment, disgusted to see that he was right to frighten Dean away. Once again, His lover's wandering eye came to bite him in the ass. How many of these messages had he intercepted at this point? Probably six or seven from Dean, another ten or so from various other men, all of them written in the same damn handwriting.

He turned on Ginny, who held his glare defiantly. What was _wrong _with her? He couldn't understand. His face must've been truly ferocious, though, because she lowered her head the next moment. It was as if he was screaming at her without ever saying a word.

_ I honestly don't need this right now. _

"Please go and get your stuff. We're going home."

"My shift isn't over yet," she countered, headstrong despite her quivering fingers. There was a moment of rigid silence. After a beat, Harry pulled out his wand and set the note on fire. He watched it burn in his palm, too tired to feel betrayed, and let the ashes fall between his fingers.

"I'll be waiting at home. If you try to avoid me, I'm telling Ron everything."

She snapped to attention, opening her mouth to argue. He held up a hand to stop her, not even giving her the courtesy of seeing his face as he stormed out the door. The Auror radiated a dark aura that warned all of his co-workers to keep their distance. He gathered his coat, left everything on his desk as it was, and signed off of work an hour early. Flooing back to Grimmauld Place, he sidestepped a waiting Kreacher. Seating himself within view of the fireplace and the front door, Harry waited for the end of the hour, watching the clock the entire time. The house elf tried to force him to eat, since anyone who laid eyes on Harry could tell his diet was skimpy at best. However, he declined ever offer of a meal Kreacher presented him with. He never moved from his spot, though he did begin to slouch. His only thought was of what he would tell the Weasleys after everything was over, since there was no way of his relationship with Ginny making it through this one. It was just one note too many.

_ She better show up. I don't want to bring anyone else into this. _The grandfather clock in the hall tolled on the hour, and Harry sat up a little straighter in his chair. _I'd rather they think I'm being a complete prick than have them fighting with each other. _

The fire in the hearth flared violent green, revealing the youngest Weasley at her worst: her bright hair fell in a ragged French braid; her much-loved, cobalt blue robes were crumpled in one hand, her expensive high heels hanging from the other; even her usually intricate makeup ran in streaks of mascara and foundation from what seemed to be heavy weeping. Feeling quite unimpressed, Harry waved her into one of her favorite chairs by the warmth of the fire. She perched herself on the edge of the cushion, possibly ready to throw herself to the floor if she had to. For Ginny's sake, he forced himself to look at her without shaking his head in exasperation. He knew how she played her game, appearing pitiable and repentant so he would feel in the wrong. Even after she lost an argument, if she ran off to her brother in such a fabricated state of despair, Harry would have no choice but to give in.

_ Not this time, _he told himself. _It's time to end this insanity. _

"Gin, please calm down," he asked in a gentle tone, patting her shoulder. He saw the glint in her eye before she started bawling. "Don't make this even harder for the both of us."

"H-harry," she choked on a sob. "I'm so sorry! I promise, never again. It didn't mean anything; it was just a note. I swear, I would never betray you. Never, never!" More sobbing, with a few hiccups thrown in for good measure. "Really, honestly, truly sorry. I love you, Harry! I don't deserve your forgiveness, I know I don't, but please!"

"Please what, Ginny? Forgive you anyway? Seriously, that's quite enough of this crying business. I've known you too long, and you've done this _way _toomuch." She continued her charade like he never spoke at all. Pausing, he pulled her into a loose embrace, with a decent amount of inches between their chests. When she tried to grasp his arms, he shook her off, rubbing her back while she kept on acting. "If I said I forgive you, would you calm down?"

It felt as if he'd flipped a switch when Ginny finally had the mind to look at his face. That was when he saw just enough of that cocky, winner's smirk to prove his point. She always thought she had him on puppet strings, manipulating his every weakness.

_ Today just isn't my day, _he groused, creating distance between himself and his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend. "I've had enough."

Her face fell, and he watched as she uncoiled herself to show her true colors. Shooting up from her seat, Ginny's mask of penance traded with one of haughty rage, reminiscent of demon with a thousand faces. She attempted to loom over him, sticking an accusatory finger under his nose.

"You know what your problem is? You are way too jealous. Just because you're the amazing Harry Potter, you think all of my attention should be on you."

_ Wow, _he scoffed. He leaned back in his chair, refusing to yell. He wanted the breakup to be generally civil, and kicking her out of the house now would be, to some extent, counterproductive. At least, that was what he told himself.

"It's not about being jealous, Gin. It's about you sleeping around behind my back, plain and simple."

She flinched, as if slapped across the face. "I meant it when I said that would never happen again. Dean was a mistake the first time, and the break room thing was just a joke. _Nothing _was going to happen."

"That's exactly what you said last time, word for word." He gestured for her to sit back down, maintaining a terse composure. His goal was simply to keep Ginny from throwing a tantrum, or else all hopes of a peace would be lost. "Listen, you know I'm not the type to hold a grudge, but you need to know what this is. This," gesturing to her heated glare and clenched fists, "is you getting mad because I won't let you fool around. I'm done taking your shit, Ginny, completely fed up. I told you before, if I see you make a pass at him again, we were through."

"Harry!"

"No." They were at a standoff, staring at each other in utter quiet. She seemed to be in a near panic, searching his face for answers. Unable to find ground, she attacked him yet again.

"The only reason I cheat is because you don't pay me any attention."

"I know."

She hesitated, not expecting him to agree. "If you would just spend a little time with me, Harry, I promise—"

"Ginny, enough." He kneaded his temples, feeling the warning signs of an anger-induced headache. He was at his limit, wanting only to be left alone. "You need someone who can worship the ground you walk on, and that just isn't me. I'm sorry, I really am, but you're going to have to—"

"Nuh-uh," she covered her ears, curling in on herself. "I don't wanna hear it!"

"Ginny, please—"

"NO! I DON'T WANNA HEAR IT! IT HAS TO BE YOU, HARRY! IT HAS TO, IT HAS TO, IT HAS TO!" He sighed yet again that day, his head pounding so hard he could hear his heart beating in his ears. She honestly had to leave before he lost his temper.

"Come on, Ginny, I'm going to get angry."

"NO! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!"

Her screaming finally set off Mrs. Black's portrait, whose hideous screech brought his headache into another plane of agony. Harry grabbed his head, hunching over into his own lap. The atrocious din wrapped around him, mercilessly squeezing his skull. Pure adrenaline charged through him, bringing on a wave of nausea so strong he fell to his knees. Clawing at his scalp until his nails were bloody, he felt more than heard the unearthly wail that ripped itself from his chest. It was so powerful, it shook him blind.

Suddenly, all sound faded until Harry heard nothing but the ringing in his ears.

From there, he allowed himself to fall.


	2. Welcome to Oblivion

**Featured Songs**

"Fireflies" – Owl City

"Alice in Wonder Underground" – Buck Tick

**Chapter Two: Welcome to Oblivion **

He had finally gone around the bend, though he would be lying to say that he didn't enjoy the sensation. If anyone ever asked him what it felt like to be splendidly insane, his answer would quite simply be that it was like walking on the ceiling.

The whole blinking world was upside down, as if a giant gathered it in his palm and tossed it into the air. Vibrant trees bearing shimmering fruit stood where there should've been clouds, and the field they grew in stretched on for miles. The emerald grass tickled his bare feet and shined in the oddest way. By some strange impulse, he reached down—or perhaps up?—and plucked a thin stalk that brushed against his ankle. He twirled it between his thumb and forefinger, gliding on a gentle euphoria. As far as he was concerned, he could be either mad or dead and be none the happier. Looking toward the earth, he gasped in amazement, truly taken aback by the beautiful sight. A sea of stars spanned down below, twinkling as would the eyes of a new mother gazing upon the face of her child. Harry couldn't recall ever seeing such a moving sight and drank in the lonely hugeness of space.

"Brilliant…"

"Captivating, isn't it?"

He leaped out of his skin, yelping shamelessly.

"My exact sentiments."The voice in his head let loose a good-natured snicker, sounding like a young man at peace with the world.

"Where are you?" He spun around in circles, searching for the mystery speaker.

Suddenly, he felt someone brush against his arm. He jumped to grab them, only to be face to face with himself, or rather, someone who shared the same face. The other Harry smiled knowingly, patting him on the shoulder like they were brothers.

"_Who_ are you?" he breathed.

"Me?" The man's grin was nothing short of shit-eating. "Well, I'm Harry Potter. And you?"

His radiant mood was dampened by the confusing answer, but it picked right back up. Obviously, this had to be some hallucination his mind dreamt up to confront him about something or other. If he ignored it, it would go away. Returning his gaze to the stars, Harry and his friend shared a comfortable silence. At that moment, a breeze blew through, carrying his company's stench into his nostrils, much to his misfortune. The man's body odor assaulted his senses with the stench of sweat and something coppery…blood? Out of common courtesy, he refrained from pulling a face, and he glanced at him with watering eyes. He yelped again when he saw, in the man's stead, a younger version of himself that roused Harry out of the last of his cheery temper.

The savior of Wizarding Britain was staring down at a Harry from seven years back, on the night he defeated Voldemort and ended the war. The boy beside him bore a terrifying resemblance, one he had hoped to forget in the years since that final battle—he was bone-weary, filthy and in a mild state of shock. The replica even had the unforgettable, hollow stare in his prominent green eyes as he looked out into nothing, one he found on his own face for years after that night.

_This person…_"W-what—who…?"

"I told you," the boy smiled convincingly, "I'm seventeen years old. I go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I set out to save the world yet again, and I am now no longer part of the land of the living. I. Am. Harry. Potter."

Harry didn't speak, choosing to stare at the ghost from his past. He thanked Merlin for the soothing environment and the boy's unthreatening air, or he may not have been able to keep his head. There was another silence, this one suggestively more awkward. The scene of stars and lush greenery wore away at his initial panic; ultimately, he only entertained feelings of acceptance and a modicum of sorrow.

"So I'm dead," he mused.

_Bloody brilliant way to go, I'd say, _scratching the back of his neck. _I must've bust a vein and died right there on the floor, with my face in the carpet. _

"Actually Harry—"

_All covered in dust and whatnot. My body probably reeks of mothballs._

"Harry, I think you're mistaken—"

Perhaps a more despondent reaction was expected, but Harry couldn't argue the fact that this new world, the afterworld, was a paradise. Granted, it seemed a tad solemn, but he felt he was a great deal better off. Although, his death disappointed him quite a bit, seeing as he spent his entire life thinking he would be killed in battle with a Death Eater. It seemed as though he was fated to be done in by one of Ginny's legendary temper tantrums.

The ghost tapped his shoulder, amusement dancing across his face. "I'm sorry, Harry, but you're a bit off."

Harry broke his train of thought. "Excuse me?"

His companion bit back a wide grin. "Harry, the only one dead and or dying here is me."

_The fuck? I _hate_ not knowing what's going on around me. _He plopped down onto the grass, crossing his legs before motioning the other Harry to do the same. When the two were comfortable, he asked for a full explanation.

"Well, first of all, this isn't the afterlife. Have you ever heard of the aether?"

"I suppose I have. It has something to do with alchemy." Other Harry nodded like he was encouraging a child. Harry tried not to let it annoy him.

"Sort of. In this case, it's like the fifth element. I've only been for a short while, so I don't know much." The mud-covered boy ran a hand through his grubby hair, cringing from the stench his action provoked. "Erm, I suppose the best way to say it is that aether is the element of the mind…or heart, or other non-physical component that balances out all magic. Basically, everything that ever imagined itself into existence comes from the aether: ghosts, Boggarts, centaurs, merpeople, even wizards. We are in the plane of aether right now. As you can see, most of the creatures envisaged a new world to live in, so there's plenty of elbow space. We're actually closeto the realm of the afterlife, though, so be careful not to wander too far."

"Hold on." Harry pointed to the stars beneath them. "Is _that _the afterlife?" Other Harry grunted in response, furrowing his brow. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Hush. I'm thinking." He sat, fiddling with the torn cuff of his jeans for a few moments. "Okay, the thing is, I can't exactly tellyou what _that _is. I mean, I could give a hint—"

"Go for it."

"Eager, aren't we? Hmm, let's see…do you know what a doppelganger is?"

"It's a mischievous spirit that looks exactly like you. To see your own doppelganger is an omen of death." Defense Against the Dark Arts always delivered when he needed it most.

"You're forty-five percent right. Can you guess where doppelgangers live?"

After a few blinks, Harry pointed towards the oblivion taking the place of the ground. The boy across from him nodded, grinning in excitement. "What does this have to do with me being dead?"

"I'm dead," Other Harry corrected.

"Well, you're me, so it only makes sense that if _you _die, I'm dead."

"You really don't get it, do you?" Harry shook his head. He couldn't grasp the boy's obscure messages for the life of him. "_I, _Harry Potter, am dead. _You _are the new _me. _I called you here to give you permission to be Harry Potter."

"You're batty! I _am _Harry Potter, you cryptic little git!" The ghost burst into laughter so lightheartedly Harry had half-convinced himself to just leave him where he sat.

"Two words: Doppelganger Phenomenon," the boy wheezed between giggles.

_I don't fucking get it! Why can't he just _say _whatever he wants to say in the Queen's English? _

The distant toll of a bell rang across the field, bringing an abrupt end to their playtime. Serene whispering surrounded them, charming and vaguely overwhelming, and the impulse to run rattled his calm. Those lovely voices compelled him to wander into a place to far from living to be comfortable. Somehow, by some unknown nature, he knew they were the coaxing words of the hereafter.

Without explaining himself, his ghost self hopped to his feet, knees quaking, and Harry would've though him frightened if not his beaming face. He'd never seen himself look so damned joyful before, not even when he had his learned to fly or received his first Christmas present. Later, Harry would testify that witnessing a human soul pass on brought him closer to tears than the entirety of the last seven years of his life.

The boy walked towards the tolling. A warm wind embraced them. The stars swirled and almost seemed to sing with light. Weightlessness took hold of the both of them, and as the ghost drifted towards the horizon, Harry floated closer towards oblivion.

"_I have to be honest with you, Harry. I had every intention of beating your face in for taking liberties." _

"Just what have you been on about all this time? You can't leave without giving me at least _one _straight answer!"

Other Harry presented him with a right cheeky grin and a two-finger salute before soaring towards the bell, _"I can't give you all the answers, mate! Figure it out!" _

He had no control over his body, falling back out of the world he tumbled into. Whatever force of gravity at work in the aether had caved in to a more demanding power, one that dragged him into the waiting depth of the void. Harry prayed the fairly dark intuition that buzzed in his veins meant nothing, just this once.

* * *

**04:35 am : October 31****st**** : St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries**

"—rents, can you believe that? So I nagged Ron over it for ages until, _finally, _he makes the proper arrangements and sends out the invitations. I'm a little bit proud—"

"G'morning to you, too, 'Moine," he rasped, regretting it instantly. His throat burned with rawness, and the effort to sit up sent blood straight to his head. He decided the dizziness wasn't worth it and took pleasure in being fussed over for a few minutes.

Harry heard the swarm of indistinct shapes all talking to him at once. Some asked if he was okay, while others—mainly Mrs. Weasley—thanking any higher power she could think of for "bringing him back safe and sound". Instead of answering questions, he gestured for Hermione to come down to his level. She bent over discreetly, appearing both concerned and dreadfully curious. As quietly as possible, he asked if she would research something for him.

"Of course," she said louder than necessary. Lowering her voice, she leaned in a little closer, so he was speaking right into her ear. "Just tell me what you want me to look into."

"Doppleganger Phenomenon."

Hermione's eyes widened. He knew the subject itself was hardly, if ever, brought up in one's magical education. Despite claims, no one has ever officially seen a doppelganger firsthand, which made information on them nearly nonexistent. He knew he was asking a lot of his friend, but she was the only one in their circle who had unlimited access to the Restricted Section in the Hogwarts library. Rebuilt as the most secure place in Britain aside from Gringotts, she could carry on exploring further the topic at the school without drawing worry of disturbance. Also, judging by the confident smirk he'd seen so often, she welcomed the challenge.

Moderately reassured, Harry went on to host his visitors until the nurse arrived to usher them out. The Healers advised he sleep, but after apparently having slept for almost two days, rest was his last concern. Putting on his glasses, he surveyed the room, with its optimistic wall paper, potted plants and Honeyduke's gift baskets. All of it harmless, made to lift his spirits, though the muffled croaking of uneaten chocolate frogs did nothing to quiet his restlessness.

His instincts were on edge, and his career taught him to trust his gut feeling—it kept him alive. Something felt off kilter. He was struck with a ghastly case of the shivers, one he couldn't beat with deep breathing. His body felt insubstantial, as though he would fade into nothing is he stopped paying attention. He compared it to learning to cast a Patronus in third year: when he failed to concentrate, whatever form it had quickly dissolved into a fine mist. Clutching his knees to his chest, Harry attempted to literally hold himself together; he focused on the shape of his legs, the scars across his shins and knees, anything and everything that was Harry Potter. The intense weightlessness dissipated and the shivers stopped, but he agitated, bewildered, petrified. He bit down on his tongue, the pain keeping him grounded.

_I'm afraid to be alone…_

The dim room was chilly early on an October morning, so he buried himself in his sheets. He must've made more of a racket than he thought, because the person in the bed beside his groaned. The fidgety young man tried rolling over, wincing when the bed audibly creaked. His roommate huffed, throwing off his blanket to sit ramrod straight.

"Merlin, Potter, can't a bloak even heal without you botching it up?" The signature blonde hair caught his attention, followed by the haunting pair of thoroughly narked, tornado grey eyes. Harry hadn't seen that sneer since he vouched for his family in the Wizengamot so long ago. Quite frankly, could've gone another few years without it.

"Grow up, Malfoy," he mumbled, flattening his fringe against his forehead. "We aren't students anymore." Honestly, he fainted in loud situations, panicked in silent ones, so the universe brings him the _one _arsehole known for both his thunderous temper and cold shoulder?

_I know this is your doing, other Harry. _He shot the ceiling a dirty glare. _Don't worry. Everything will be fucking wonderful, because I'm going to ignore this git until his pureblood head combusts from the total lack of attention. _

"Oi, Potter," called the aforementioned git. Harry stared out the window, resolute in his mission to rebel against the universe. "Potter, I don't think you want to ignore me right now."

"Like hell I don't," he retorted, burrowing deeper into his bed. However, the solemn tone used to address him made him turn anyway. Malfoy examined him with a stony expression, eyes roaming from Harry's unruly hair to the legendary scar on his forehead. He waited to be insulted, preferring one of his many nicknames over the stark silence. On top on that—though he refused to admit he to being nervous—the pureblood's scrutiny irritated him more than it should. With Malfoy acting so out of character, Harry seemed strangely lost, like he didn't know how to react. Then the loneliness returned, and the Auror curled into himself to ward off the shivers. The only sound was the chattering of his teeth before Malfoy finally spoke up again.

"Potter, what did you do to yourself?"

Looking down at his trembling hands, Harry did his best to swallow his terror. He rubbed his eyes with his forearm, hoping it all was a trick of the light. His stomach dropped when it registered what Malfoy watched in morbid fascination: from his wrists up, there was nothing but empty air.


	3. Best Week Ever

**Featured Song: **

"Schadenfreude" –Avenue Q

**Chapter Three: Best Week Ever **

Draco lay back in the hospital bed, impatient for the end of a week so horrid it was worthy of legend.

On Monday, he and his lover broke it off. That evening, he met a lady friend at a pub he frequented, going on to enjoy a night of therapeutic shagging. Tuesday morning he read the message written in lipstick on the hotel's bathroom mirror, advising he have himself checked—he liked to think that the nameless witch was later eaten by an enraged manticore. After making an appointment with a private physician, he proceeded to shower in scalding water, scrubbing until his skin felt raw. On Wednesday, the liberation of receiving a clean bill of health led to an alcoholic binge that lasted through Thursday. He spent all of Friday with his head in the toilet, vomiting to the point of worrying his mother. In the middle of reassuring an anxious Narcissa Malfoy, the young master spewed his own blood before keeling over quite dramatically. Just that morning, he'd been told that his longtime appreciation of alcohol had been, in fact, murdering his liver for years, and he had to sign off on never touching the stuff again. Both the notions of sex and drinking were destroyed for him in one, seven day span.

It seemed as though the Fates refused to stop until he was thoroughly fucked over beyond recognition.

For instance, it was eight in the morning, a truly ungodly hour during which he should have been passed out in his comfort of his own bed. Instead, he was in a garish hospital room with garish, that now bustled with confused Healers and panicked loved ones. Not his loved ones, of course—hardly anyone qualified except his mother—but those of none other than Harry bloody Potter.

Draco had been feigning sleep when mediwizards hauled in the lifeless hero not two hours after his admittance. Duly shocked, he listened as the professionals set about resuscitating the otherwise healthy young man behind drawn curtains. He honestly didn't know what to think. After fighting with him all through his Hogwarts career, he became accustomed to his fainting and visiting the infirmary. However, judging from the chaos, they were working to bring the Chosen One back to life.

Draco scowled at his own concern, disgusted with himself for losing sleep over Potter's welfare. Nevertheless, he stayed awake to greet Potter's return to the world of the living. When his supposed enemy finally spoke, Draco thanked the Creator that his sigh of relief was swallowed by the surrounding clamor. He quickly gave his back to the exasperatingly affectionate scene in favor of suppressing his own overexcitement.

_He's not dead, _he allowed himself to think. _Thank Merlin, he's not dead. _

The reality of his situation wasn't lost on him. Draco was well aware of his cavernous longing for Potter's friendship, despite how nauseating he found that truth to be. Any wizard with half of a functioning brain could discern that the infamous rejection of first year echoed throughout the subsequent six or seven years of petty loathing. Mutual hostility worked in keeping his desires hidden from himself as well as others, but even Draco Malfoy grew up eventually. The fact of the matter was that no one needed to know that but himself.

"What'd you do to Harry, you slimy git?"

Draco glared at the Weasel's heated appearance, sneering out of habit. "Expect nothing of a Weasley and you'll never be surprised" remained one of his many rules of life. He couldn't that the mere presence of a Weasley irritated him, but he took pride in himself for not hexing the moron dead in the face. Albeit, the Healers confiscated his wand until he was released, but still.

"I haven't a clue what you're on about, Weasley," he replied, spitting the name as if it were diseased. "As far as I'm concerned, Potter did that to himself."

"You're sayin' he asked for it—"

"Ronald! Calm down, son," Arthur Weasley pushed his idiot progeny aside. "Mr. Malfoy, we only want to stop all of this confusion. Might you know why Harry is so convinced that he's going to disappear?"

The middle-aged man set his face in what Draco was sure he thought to be a firm expression. Draco stole a glance over the man's shoulder, at Potter staring down his two, unharmed hands. By the time the medics blew in, syringes loaded, the two of them managed to jar the appendages out of hiding. Apparently, all the frantic hero needed was a stiff slap across the face, courtesy of a particularly enthusiastic Draco. The action meant to silence the young man managed, instead, to snap him out of whatever fit he had worked himself into.

_I should be thanked, not accused. Why do I even bother getting involved with Potter if I always end up persecuted like a fucking Judas? It's not worth, Draco, it really isn't. _

Of course, he'd been telling himself that for ages. He doubted the message would sink in just then.

"Malfoy," croaked that damned voice. "You saw it, didn't you? I know you did."

Draco glowered at the speaker from the corner of his eye. "You're daft, Potter. I swear, you must've imagined the entire ordeal." He threw him the cocky smirk he knew the other man simply despised. "I advise dreamless sleep; it keeps you from wasting my time."

His fan club exploded with protests and insults, soon becoming so raucous, the nurses had to corral them into the corridor. With unease, he realized both him and Potter were dreadfully alone. He thought about anything but the person next to him, but his noble attempts failed at every turn. Draco tensed at the sound of the hoarse sigh and the creaking of the bed frame. Behind him, he sensed Potter opening his mouth to speak.

"Harry!" The loud she-Weasley barreled into the room, swatting off men in Auror uniforms left and right. Draco scoffed to no one in particular as she flew to her lover's side. "Oh, Harry, are you okay? It's just awful! They put security around the door and everything! Is someone trying to hurt you?"

_He's fucking Harry Potter. There's always someone trying to hurt him. _

"Ginny, why're you here?"

_Oh dear, trouble in paradise. _Draco basked in the glory that was the Weaslette's distraught face. She looked absolutely gutted and he gleaned every moment of it for later entertainment. _Oh, how brilliant! She's speechless! _

Ginny Weasley floundered for a bit, but regained her footing rather quickly. Sparing a nervous glance his way, she bent down only to be pushed away by a stony Potter. "I told you. It's over. Now, I would appreciate your leaving. Also, don't go sending me any letters or showing up at my house, because I guarantee that we have nothing more to talk about." Then he topped off his speech with a smile that must've felt like a punch to the gut. "Goodbye, Gin."

The ginger was struck dumb, and Draco simply couldn't help himself.

"I'm sorry, Ginevra, but it appears as though Potter has kicked you to the proverbial curb. Thanks for playing, but you just lost the game."

A moment later, he found himself observing the business end of her wand. Admittedly, the angry, red sparks it was spitting intimidated him somewhat, but the mortal peril was worth the constipated look on her face. Aurors rushed her, wrestling the weapon from her hand as gently as possible before hauling her out of the room. Draco watched with vicious glee as she wrestled on guard to the ground and one actually Stunned her—he'd cherish that memory until his dying day.

Yet again, they were the only ones present, with virtually no one left to interrupt them. Draco thought up dozens of snide comments, all of which conflicted with his not wanting to talk to the other man in the room. They parted ways almost a decade ago, and he had expected their old rivalry to sputter to life should they ever met again. At this point, anything could happen.

"You're a real bastard, Malfoy, you know that?"

_Should I be relieved or offended? _

"Aw, what a shame. I thought we were bonding," he responded, surprising both of them. He felt the probing stare on his face. "Don't flatter yourself, Potter. I enjoy seeing a Weasley in an uproar quite a bit more than I hate you."

He heard bare feet padding towards him before he glimpsed the unmistakable bird's nest at his bedside. Draco froze, heart hammering against his ribs, as Potter planted himself in the horribly upholstered visitor's chair. He turned and their eyes met.

_Blow me. He doesn't even look angry. _

"Why didn't you admit that you saw it?"

"I didn't see anything, Potter, and neither did you if you want to skip out of here anytime soon."

A choked sob broke the momentary hush, and his stomach plummeted to the floor. The young man next to him trembled, inhaling deeply. Draco snapped to attention, grabbing Potter's chin and forcing his head up. He anxiously searched the man's face, gaze flickering down to the hand fisting his shirt. A beat later, he shoved Potter away, swearing loudly. He had anticipated another fit, and moved to catch him in case he passed out. Instead, he ended up with an armful of sniggering savior, complete with teary eyes and rosy complexion. Quite frankly, Draco never saw so much laughter in those famous, bright green eyes.

By no accounts had the petulant blonde wanted to punch him in the nose more than right then.

"Yes, yes, have a wonderful chuckle now, because I'll blast you to hell afterwards." He adjusted his posture accordingly, beating down embarrassment with enough imagined force to scare small children. He scowled at the clearly amused man, entertaining heated fantasies of revenge much too nightmarish to repeat in polite company. "Go ahead; take the piss while you still can."

"No, sorry," Potter chuckled, wiping his eyes under his glasses. "Really, I didn't mean anything by it. It's just…you seemed to actually _care_ for a second!"

"Strangest thing: the more noise you make, the closer my knuckles get to your head. Please, do go on."

"No! I'm laughing at myself, honest," he rushed, looking not the least bit sorry. In fact, he was positively beaming. "And at you, too, I suppose."

_Arsehole. _Draco shook his head, barking at Potter to get away from him. For his pains, he received more rusty laughter. Potter cracked a joke, and Draco pretended he wasn't amused. The atmosphere in the room shifted as the morning ticked by. Sunlight streamed steadily through the drawn curtains, stronger than before. Outside their door, St. Mungo's churned with activity. Healers in white robes scuttled down the halls, escorting civilians dressed in the laid-back attire of a Sunday afternoon. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him: two enemies having a decent chat, as if they were best mates. It was the definition of uncharted territory, and he waited for Potter to come off of whatever high he was currently on. Eventually, Potter would realize who he was talking to, back away slowly and they would be back to never seeing each other. Unless, of course, they both happened to be buried in the same graveyard, though that would make for terrible conversation.

He glanced at the source of his internal turmoil, half-listening to his own rant about Ministry politics. Potter swallowed his drivel without complaint, offering minor observations, even arguing on a few points he understood. They bantered with little to no malicious intent, and even their threats felt light and harmless. The entire experience was downright odd, despite being one of few things he wanted above all else in life—second only to owning the man in Quidditch.

"Malfoy, come back to me, now." A firm elbow nudged him in the ribs, something he'd wanted for far too long. Draco finally reached his limit.

"What the hell are you up to, Potter?" The man in question frowned, befuddled. Draco examined his face all over again, failing to understand. It looked like the same Harry Potter, if a few years older. The main difference was the fond glow in those eyes, one he had noticed countless times in the Dining Hall. Not once was it ever directed him.

_Certain things just don't happen in real life._

Potter sighed, scratching at his notorious scar. "Shit, why'd you have to go and—" he muttered under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut. The pleasant mood was shattered, and before Draco could regret saying anything, the Chosen One had already perched himself on his own bed. "We were having on perfectly fine until you went and botched it up." The young master Malfoy threw his guard up, not willing to admit that he was thinking that himself.

_Ruining Potter's mood, I understand. _

"Well, excuse me if I'm a little fucking mystified that you suddenly want to shoot the fucking breeze, Potter!" He let the anger consume everything else, brutal disappointment and self-hatred included. "We've hated each other since we were eleven, and now—poof—bosom buddies? I hate to break it to you, Potter, but this isn't some storybook for little wizards. We live in the real world, where Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy _cannot be friends!_"

"I wasn't asking for your damn hand in marriage! I figured I was allowed to at least talk_; _apologies if I jumped the fucking gun there, Malfoy." Draco glared with all his might, hoping his rage might in some way manage to cause bodily harm. Potter dug around on the other side of his bed, simultaneously yanking the medical curtains shut. When they opened again, the arsed man stood, fully-clothed, tucking his wand into a black leather holster furtively tucked against his shoulder. Fuming, Potter made for the door, determined to avoid looking at him.

"Oh, so you're running away." He knew he was toeing a dangerous line. "The great hero, Harry Potter, is fleeing with his tail between his legs."

The raven-haired man shot him a look so fierce, so void of compassion that Draco visibly shuddered. He remembered seeing that brand of rage once before, and his chest still bore scars from the first curse Potter ever used against him. Mortal fear ran down into his bone marrow, and he desperately hoped he didn't just earn himself a second one.

Nevertheless, he refused to fold, banishing all emotion from his face except defiance and a modicum of loathing. When Potter stepped up to him, mouth grim, Draco made the extra effort to sneer. "I believe you were just leaving."

_You know you want to curse me, Potter. Just do it, already. _

"You really are a prick," Potter spat, storming past the nervous Healer in the doorway. Draco didn't allow himself to think about the disaster he just created out of thin air. He could worry about all of that later, once he was truly alone.

* * *

**16:46 PM: October 31****st**** : Malfoy Manor**

"Mother, I'm home." His voice carried through the veined marble of the foyer, echoing off of mirrors and suits of armor until it reverberated into the depths of the manor. Somewhere in the labyrinth of corridors, a house elf would hear him and deliver the message to the widow of the house. Normally, he would check the garden; she took tea in her favorite spot by the magnolia tree at about that time. However, he recognized the signs: unlit candles, hidden house elves, and the dismal, draining heaviness in the air. Narcissa was in one of her moods, warning him to stay out of her sight.

Heeding the eerie quiet, Draco headed straight to his private chambers, taking care to lock the dark wood behind him. He slipped out of his socks and shoes, disrobing en route to his spacious bed and silky comforters, ready to sooth his aching soul. He didn't bother dressing for bed, preferring the cool feel of the sheets against his bare skin. Tossing and turning, he tried to will himself to sleep.

With a huff, the twenty four year old stacked his various throw pillows around him until he could see nothing from his waist down. In his downy fortress, he could ignore the world. Then, just like when he was a child, he traced the familiar dragon carving that made up the bed's ornate headboard—the detailed scales, the curve of the talon, the graceful bow of both wings—until he lay petting the dragon's head. He could still remember how the ritual used to lull him to sleep, transforming nightmares into dreams of taming wild creatures with the dragon as his companion. In his mind, they shared a name, and he promised himself that he would one day catch a dragon, name it Draco, and they would fly away together.

_Back when things were simple…I miss those days. _

Draping his arm across his eyes, the young man promised himself he wouldn't cry. First, he would sleep—he hadn't done so properly throughout the whole weekend. The solid two-hour naps he had happening for him on Saturday only went so far. If it weren't for Potter…

_Fuck, _he heaved a sigh, grinding the heel of his hand into his forehead. _All roads lead back to him, doesn't it? _

He thought back to the very question that he _knew _he shouldn't have asked. His mouth always caused more trouble than it did fortune. Out of the blue, Potter shows up, they hit it off, and he just had to back out in the last moment.

_I'm a such a coward! _

Draco flung a pillow across his room with a nasty grunt. It knocked over a silver serving tray on his writing desk, sending its contents spilling down to the carpet. He sat up and stared at the mess, hoping to discover some unknown telepathy or talent for wandless magic. Unfortunately, sending threatening thoughts at the floor didn't make it any cleaner.

He rolled over, reaching for the wand on his nightstand when he noticed the pale envelope on the wine-colored carpet. Interested, he vanished the rest of his mess.

"_Accio, _letter," Draco murmured, snatching the letter as it flew towards him. He didn't recognize the stationary, quirking an eyebrow. Breaking the seal, he read the slanted scrawl:

_Malfoy, _

_I know you can't stand me, but please don't burn this just yet. You see, I get why you were so angry, I do. Believe me when I say I can't even think of what possessed me to want to talk to you of my own free will, unless, of course, I'm telling you to go fuck yourself. Crude, but true. _

_One thing I do understand, though, is that you enjoyed talking civilly to one another as much as I did. I say we meet up for a few drinks and bury the hatchet once and for all. As odd as this must sound coming from me, I'd actually like to get to know you. _

_H. Potter_

_P.S. Is us being friends really such a crime? _

Draco read the letter twice, then once more, before falling back onto his bed, absolutely floored. He stared at the ceiling, the letter and back again, repeating the process every time he tried to take in what he just read. Harry Potter, the Golden Boy of Gryffindor that he secretly admired since he hit puberty, wanted end their feud. After fourteen years, half of which they never even saw each other, it was Potter who was extending his hand in friendship. He dragged an astonished hand through his platinum hair, unsure of whether to faint or laugh. In the privacy of his own room, the young man leaped out of bed, dancing in the general direction of his desk.

Pulling out parchment and a quill, he took a moment to relax, setting into writing his reply. He kept it short, making sure to comment on Potter's atrocious penmanship. Throwing on a night robe, Draco walked out onto his terrace, breathing in the scents of the finely manicured garden off to his right. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mother on the bench underneath the magnolia. Her long, silvery hair spilled over her shoulders and back, catching the light of the setting sun. She turned, glancing up at his window, and was shocked to see him staring down at her. Caught looking, she smiled, waved, and returned to staring up into the magically blooming branches of her favorite tree.

_It seems as though I've been forgiven. _

He whistled for an owl, which soared noiselessly from around the back of the manor. It landed on his arm, preening itself while he tied his note to its outstretched leg.

"Take this to Harry Potter," Draco said proudly, drawing a faint gasp from his mother down below. Smirking, he strutted back inside, closing the terrace doors behind him. He tried to bite back his smile, but failed marvelously. Settling back into his pillows, the rush of excitement faded and doubt crept into its place. What if Potter was having him on? What if it was all a joke? What if he screwed up again?

_What do I do then? _

Draco stared at his dragon headboard, worrying his lower lip.

_What do I do? _


	4. Impossible Is Nothing But A Word

**Sorry this chapter took so long! It took a while to see how it would pan out. **

**Chapter Four: Impossible Is Nothing But A Word **

Harry slammed the door behind him, ripping off his jacket and tossing it into the corner of the room. There went a pleasant afternoon, one of his first in ages—now it was just a sour memory because of that snarky bastard Malfoy. What was it that he said: "Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy cannot be friends"?

_Bullshit!_

What was wrong with just talking? Sure, they hated each other all through Hogwarts, fought on opposite sides of the war, then parted ways and hadn't the mind to meet up since. But really, what did that even mean in the grand scheme of things: all of those reasons were minor, at best.

_Why do I even care? Damn him and his perfectly coifed hair to the deepest ditch in wizard hell! _

He balled his fists, iching to hit something_, anything. _

"_Can't be friends"? What the hell is that? I could be the Batman to his Robin! _

Harry finally worked himself into a right fit,conjuring parchment and a quill. Sitting Indian-style on the floor, he scratched out a decent note to be sent immediately. He _refused_ to be ignored.

_God help me, he _will _be my friend, even if I have to park my boot up his poncy little arse to get it done. _

A beat later, he found himself sitting cross-legged on the floor of the master bedroom, having just extended the proverbial olive branch to his worst enemy. The postal owl flew on its merry way to deliver his message, and every time Harry thought about the recipient, his scowl deepened. As his temper flared, so did his migraine.

The din of street traffic drifted through his window to grate against his skull. He could feel the blood pounding in his head; he tasted it as he gnawed away at the inside of his cheeks. Quiet—he _needed _quit.

Growling, Harry waved at the open window and jumped at the sound of it snapping shut on its own accord. For a moment, he had complete quiet.

_Did I just…_

Warily, Harry waved again. The curtains fluttered, but the window itself stayed closed. He licked his lips, and then, holding his breath, flicked his wrist upwards. The window then flew open so hard, the panes shattered. Glass rained down on him from across the room. Panicked, he scrambled away on all fours. His back bumped against the door and. Wrenching it open, he ran

_Un-fucking-believable! I didn't just…I can't have…_

The trained Auror bumbled down the stairs, tripped and came crashing down on his knees. In a mad crawl, he dashed into the living room, coughing up clouds of dust as he went. He didn't know what exactly he was running from, but it sure as hell wasn't going to catch him. His arms gave out from under him, and he fell head-first into the cushions of the old sofa. Gasping for clean air, Harry kicked wildly. In the kitchen, he heard Kreacher's garbled shriek, followed by crashing of dozens of kamikaze plates flying out of their cupboards.

He dove for cover behind the worn loveseat, wand whipped out of its holster. His fighter's instinct screamed that his house was under attack. The whole of his body was trembling, and lightheadedness started to affect him. Hyperventilating as he was, it would only be a matter of minutes before he passed out.

_Inhale…Exhale…_

The Chosen One sagged against his dusty furniture, focusing on his breathing. He covered his ears with both hands and tuned out his house elf's sobbing. Harry could honestly say that he never felt so out of place in his own skin. His fainting, his disappearing hands, his out of control magic, and now a persistent sensation hollowness eating away from the inside out…

It all meant something was horribly wrong_. _

He lost the feeling in his toes, and with a whimper, recognized the sickening weightlessness that crept onto him in his insecurity. Shrinking into himself, he fought the onslaught of shivers. He appreciated wearing Ministry regulation boots all the more, since his feet felt a lot less present than they should have.

The mental image of his legs cut off at the ankles shook him into action. Someone somewhere had to know what was happening to him. He rushed out the front door, draping his shabby trench coat across his shoulders as he went.

Harry ignored the fact that he didn't leave any footsteps in the gravel.

**

* * *

**

Draco officially despised clocks. In truth, he hated being kept waiting, especially when he was the only wizard in the room. Since there wasn't anything he could do to time equivalent to punching it in the face, he settled for scowling at the giant clock-face inlaid into the wall above him.

He was currently sitting in a Muggle eatery was called "Café Wonderland", which he strongly believed was inspired by an elaborate drug trip. The wallpaper had alternating stripes of azure and teal that stretched from the off-white floor upwards. He quirked an arched eyebrow at the mural on the ceiling. It depicted a tiny, blonde girl chasing an oversized rabbit in a waistcoat, which quickly lost its charm. It then featured various, eccentric characters that seemed to rally behind the girl, clapping and cheering. Draco found it quite unsettling, the way they stood frozen in place, face-spitting grins plastered on their painted mouths. His least favorite character was the half-vanished cat in the corner, as its large, yellow eyes clearly watching him.

_ Creepy. _

The servers themselves acted a bit touched in the head, walking about with playing cards pinned to their shirts. When he asked for more sweetener for his tea, they brought him a small, beribboned bottle labeled "Drink Me". He didn't move to pick it up, but instead stared at it for a minute, drawing curious looks from his server. They expected him to drink sugar from a bottle, and they thought he was odd?

_I'll never understand them. _

Draco swept his eye-catching hair back into the hood of his jacket, not wanting to be recognized. If there was anything more pathetic than a pureblood in a Muggle café, it would be a fit young man sitting alone on a Saturday afternoon.

He glanced at the lock for the tenth time in as many minutes, refusing to believe that even Potter had the balls to stand him up. He made the extra effort to reply as soon as possible, and the raven-haired arsehole had the audacity to be late. It had been over a week since their disagreement at St. Mungo's, and his impatience to just _get it over with _had long since crushed his apprehensions. They exchanged a few short notes, dancing around each other until the other man finally _promised _that they would meet in this obscure café.

And now he was left waiting, yet again.

_"I__'ll be there soon_," _he says. "Don't scare the Muggles," he says. If I have to waste another second in this child's nightmare of a restaurant, I'll hex the ever living shit out of the next Muggle I see!_

"E-Excuse me, sir." Draco glowered at the waitress at the opposite end of his table. She clutched her serving tray as if trying to protect vital organs. He felt the other patrons glancing at his table, murmuring amongst themselves. "Are you Drake Malfoy?"

The café held a collective breath, silently praying for the young woman's wellbeing. The look on his face must've been quite impressive.

"Do I make you nervous?"

"U-um—"

"I assure you, miss, I won't make any moves to leap across this table, rip your heart out of your chest and swallow it whole." He smiled wolfishly, giving her an eyeful of canines. "I've already eaten."

The waitress turned ash pale. Needless to say, his mood marginally improved. "I am _Draco _Malfoy. What do you want?"

"Erm…th-this came for you—" He snatched the note from her outstretched hand and watched her scurry away, apron flapping in her wake. The café exploded in harried whispers, hiding behind their menus. Draco's attention was on the note written in Potter's terrible chicken scratch.

_Malfoy,_

_Something came up. Please reschedule. _

_ -H. Potter _

Draco's lip curled. He crumpled the note in his gloved fist. The whole spot jumped when he shot out of his seat, tossing a few Muggle bills on the table as he stormed out. The front door swung open with a menacing tinkle, and the vexed blonde surveyed the busy street with a look of pure distain. In his opinion, Muggle London ranked highest in being the most claustrophobia-inducing city he'd ever been to travel in. The sidewalk overflowed with pedestrians in downy coats and knit caps to fight the November chill. He failed to see the head dark hair bobbing on top of the crowd, but Draco was hell bent on unleashing his wrath on Potter one way or another.

Reaching into his arsenal of Potter-isolation tactics, he resorted to one of his favorites: searching for the most godforsaken outfit within a mile radius. Sure enough, amongst the many atrocities he tried desperately to unsee—_who the shit still wore body glitter? That man better be painfully gay, or someone needs to be shot—_Draco finally caught the Boy-Who-Won't-Live-Long veer a sharp left. He stalked him for a few blocks, expecting a damn good reason as to why he'd been forgotten.

Before him loomed a hotel, one that was passably prestigious-looking, if a little on the small side. Of course, having been raised in a manor and educated in a castle, very little establishments could surprise him.

However, the simple fact that it was Potter ducking into an unknown building piqued his interest. No Prophet reporter would follow him here, and the huge red scarf he sported covered half of his face. This rendezvous must've been covert, which was amazing coming from the hero with the golden arse that all of wizarding Britain fought to kiss. Potter spun around without warning and Draco dived behind someone in a bulky rabbit suit.

"Oi, what're you—" He frantically waved away her protests.

"Hush, She-Rabbit! I'm tailing that guy over there and he can't know."

The pungent-smelling rabbit took in Potter's nervous appearance, nodding her fuzzy, bulbous head in empathy.

"Been there before, love." She continued handing out flyers, and Draco went on peeping from the crook of her pizza-stained elbow.

A tidy woman in a power suit stepped out of the hotel to meet the hero at the revolving door, wrapping her arms around his waist. They made a cozy picture.

_Ah, so that's how it is. Potter, you man-whore. _

Draco felt a modicum of comradeship; he couldn't count on both hands how many times he forwent a meeting for some quick fun with Merlin knows who. He smirked, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.

"I'm going to get closer."

"Best'a luck to ya. Try hidin' behind the welcome sign. S'got a great view."

Draco saluted the bunny woman and cast an Unnoticeable charm on himself. He walked into the lobby, watching the Potter and his date whisper to each other. He found it a touch odd that they had yet to take their business elsewhere. However, no one could ever claim that Draco Malfoy was above eavesdropping.

With a small magical tweek to his hearing, Draco could hear their discussion as if he was standing between them.

"—_shouldn't even be talking about this, Harry! It's dangerous!"_

"_I need to know, 'Moine." _

Draco nearly swallowed his tongue. The Golden Boy and the Mudblood, alone at a hotel—save himself, of course. He wasn't petty enough to go to the papers with that shameless scandal, but should he come face to face with the Weasel, may God help the poor. The conversation marched on.

"_I don't think you understand what you're asking for. That kind of information is being confiscated from private libraries across Britain. It's _illegal _to know anything about these…things. It won't be long before the Ministry wheedles its way into Hogwarts and then—"_

"_I know. I'm an Auror, Hermione. I get paid to know when I should be arrested. Could you maybe get me the book before next week?"_

"_Not possible."_

Draco started to realize the weight of what he could be hearing—the underground dealings of one Harry Potter could send him to Azkaban purely by association. Quite frankly, there were some things that he had no business involving himself in. He straightened out the wrinkles in his slacks, heaving a heavy side.

The entire Potter-Granger scandal entertained him while it lasted, and he supposed that would have to do.

"_Hermoine, I only have about a week left, and I'm being opportunistic."_

Honestly, it would take one hell of a night out to unheard that. Here he thought being friends with Potter was too good to be true. He would've been disappointed in the savior if he had the right. Being a few years out of custody himself, he hardly had the freedom to judge others. That much he couldn't deny.

_"Listen, you know I'd do anything for you, Harry, but this can't happen." _

_ "I need it to happen." _

He'd heard too much as it was; he had to walk out of earshot before any more in-tell floated his way. Draco lengthened his stride, still going unnoticed by the hotel staff and residents. He'd make it home, plan a ridiculous outting with Blaise and Pansy, and figure out a way to get mind-bendingly drunk without alcohol. Complicated, but once shit hit the fan for Potter, he doubted he could take it sober.

Throwing back his hood, he made his way outside, massaging his temples. Taking in a lungful of city air, Draco planned to erasing that afternoon from his mind and, soon enough, from his plan book. No evidence could be left behind, in case Aurors tried poking around his property for another "random search". With enough Galleons, he could soon argue that Potter and himself had no contact since his parole hearing years ago.

He sighed, already exhausted by the preventive measures ahead of him. Honestly, he had the worst luck.

_Dammit, Fate. I actually thought I had you beat for a second. _

"You win," he whispered.

"Awesome."

If he rehashed this moment later down the road, Draco would omit the fact that might've soiled himself a little. He didn't even hear Potter sneak up behind him, yet there he was, staring up at him.

The Malfoy heir averted his gaze, putting on a façade of indifference while taking advantage of his long legs. Sadly, Potter would have none of it. Draco saw him reach for his holster and took off down the block. He dodged and weaved through the bustling streets and didn't dare to see if the hero took chase. Ignoring the shouts and insults thrown his way, he leaped over a homeless person with the skill of an athlete. Landing on the balls of his feet, he threw his head back and locked gazes with his pursuer. That very man slid through the crowd, looking every bit like an animal on the hunt. For one second, Draco couldn't move, trapped in the confidence in the man's eye, one he was sure only came when a target was all but caught.

Suddenly, Potter's entire body language changed from predatory to alarmed. Draco didn't have time to react when the hero tackled him to the ground. The air rushed from his lungs, Potter flush against him. While he was still in shock, the Auror went about flipping him onto his stomach, holding both his wrists in one hand while digging a knee into his back. Pressed into the filthy pavement, Draco knew, without a doubt, that he'd just been owned.

His longtime enemy had grown well past his scrawny awkwardness, it would seem. Still recovering from the devastating tackle, Draco couldn't fight his being hauled to his feet and dragged off at Potter's leisure. Once they were tucked away in an alley, out of the sight of Muggles, the obvious tug in his stomach told him he was being Apparated.

_I could end up anywhere. _

His survivor's instinct electrocuted him into full awareness.

"Potter," he coughed through the ache in his abdomen. "Where are you taking me, you bastard?"

"Your house," was the gravelly reply.

"For fuck's sake, Potter, you can't just _pop _into Malfoy Manor. The wards won't—"

"We'll see about that." His estate came into his watery view. The afternoon sun washed over the landscape, highlighting the gold and scarlet of the autumn leaves. Spells kept the grass a lush green, and he could see the cloud of pink that was the ever-blooming magnolia tree. He'd went out of his way to keep his childhood home protected. Draco studied with Ministry-quality wards meant to keep him under house arrest, and modified them to branch outwards. Those in tandem with the ancient blood magic already at work formed a wide-reaching web of protection that made the Manor a venerable fortress.

Potter strode up to the wrought-iron gate, wand in one hand and Draco's wrists in the other. He tried to struggle, but his legs were beyond useless. He wouldn't have made it far, anyway. Besides, he was confident no one could compromise Malfoy security.

_Albeit, no one stood a better chance than the Boy-Who-Lived. _

Draco had very rarely felt both impressed and terrified at the same moment, but Potter's power couldn't be rivaled. Not only did the man evade the wards, but he did so by simply open the gates and walking in. The spell he used could've been silent, or Potter could just be some sort of wizarding god on earth. The wards didn't even flinch, only recognizing the signature of Draco Malfoy, the current master of the house. An intruder was strolling through the grounds, holding him hostage, and the Manor was none the wiser. Potter had him beat.

"What do you want with me," Draco demanded, despite his desperate position. "Money? You have quite enough of your own, you greedy little prick."

"I _could _arrest you for stalking an Auror and suspicious behavior, you know."

He scoffed. "You would've taken me straight to the Ministry in that case, Potter. Don't play me for a fool."

"Why were you following me?"

"Why did you leave me in the middle of Muggle London with my thumb up my arse?"

Potter finally released him, gesturing for him to lead the way. Rubbing his wrists and eying the hero suspiciously, Draco jerked his head in the direction on the sitting room. They walked on in a tense silence, in which he noticed that only one pair of footsteps echoed through the huge corridor. Observing his captor, he noticed the signs of sleeplessness etched into his colorless face, and he seemed to be hiding the trembling of his hands. The large scarf now hung limply around his neck, giving him a glimpse of his dry, cracked lips. Under the coat, Draco could imagine the man having lost a considerable amount of weight, and for a moment, the frighteningly powerful Auror looked like the prime example of a war orphan.

He gave into his irritating concern. "You look sick."

"I'm fine." Potter answered too quickly, but his alertness was a good sign.

"You obviously haven't been sleeping properly, Potter." Out of habit, Draco opened the tall double doors as though the man was nothing more than a guest.

Potter grinned, entering the tastefully furbished room. "You're doing it again."

Draco trailed after him, easing the doors closed before calling over his shoulder, "What exactly?"

"Acting like you care."

He kept his back to the room, as his cheeks felt much too hot and he knew he was blushing. The embarrassment of being called out fueled his shame about actually becoming red in the face. Oh, how he despised being caught off guard. Draco fought to compose himself, clearing his throat to regain some vestige of dignity.

"Whatever are you talking—"

Potter shushed him, having given his full attention to the mirrors that made up the back wall of the room. The whole space was reflected back at them, and having a smaller mirror on hand could give one a view of every corner and shelf. His mother always felt the mirrors added dimension to the room, and when done correctly, the effect astonished several of his more prominent guests. Draco, however, didn't appreciate nor understand Potter's absolute stillness. Walking up next to him, he moved to tap his shoulder before stopping in his tracks himself.

_Impossible…_

Draco saw himself, pale and dirty with hair thoroughly disheveled. He saw the dark wooden bookshelves and the colorful spines of his numerous books. He saw the chairs, the chaises, all the lamps and half-melted candles, a map of the world unfolded on a table, framed portraits of his family and friends, and everything else there to be seen. However, according to the mirrors, he stood utterly and unarguably alone.

He glanced at the grim-looking young man to his right, at the mirrors, himself, and back again. It seemed as though who he thought was Harry Potter hadn't a reflection to speak of.

"What are you," he whispered, careful not to startle the creature standing beside him.

"I don't know."


	5. A Desperate Man

**Chapter Five: A Desperate Man **

_He glanced at the grim-looking young man to his right, at the mirrors, himself, and back again. It seemed as though the very present Harry Potter hadn't a reflection to speak of. _

"_What are you," he whispered, careful not to startle the creature standing beside him. _

"_I don't know." _

**xXx**

Draco Malfoy had long accepted the fact that he was a coward. It was a familial trait, really, being something every Malfoy male inherited on top of an obscene amount of money and devastating good looks. He liked to think that they _had _to put themselves above others, or else their perfection would die away in the hordes of Muggle-infested bloodlines. Honestly, his father was a glorious coward, and his father before him, and so on, continuing back until the first, deliciously blonde Malfoy in the time of Merlin. In fact, the only reason his bloodline survived so much of history was due to centuries of valuing self-preservation over anything else.

So it shouldn't have come as a surprise that he grabbed the non-Potter by the collar and dragged him to the door.

Oh yes, the deceptive creature struggled with the all of its might, but when a Malfoy's sense of security was in danger, he acquired an almost superhuman strength. No matter what, the liability in hero's clothing would be forced off of the premises, even if it involved killing it and burning the body.

_I should of caught on when he started getting chummy a week ago! Fucking creatures think they can trick me out of everything I'm worth…I'll tear this bastard a new one. _

Draco saw the gates up ahead and his determination faltered. Whatever this thing was, it could slip through his wards without disturbing anything—there was nothing stopping it from returning. Except, perhaps, mortal fear: he would have to scare it away.

The gates swung open on well-oiled hinges, and mustering as much force as possible, Draco hurled the fake on the ground. The imposter swore lightly but stayed down, having exhausted itself into a state of submission. With nothing but manicured lawn surrounding them on all sides, he whipped out his wand and aimed between the creatures eyes. His steel resolve wouldn't be weakened, not even by the wide-eyed disbelief on the non-Potter's face, as though Draco just kicked its new puppy. No, he wasn't falling for its tricks any longer.

"Get out," he hissed at it, jerking his head towards the path leading off of the land.

"Malfoy, please listen—"

"Shut up! Your voice disgusts me." The creature flinched, frowning Potter's mouth, staring with those damnable green eyes. "Leave before I kill you, you _revolting_ monster."

His threat only seemed to motivate the imposter, which then perked up, rising off of the ground with strained caution. It held its hands in a gesture of surrender, and Draco had to thoroughly remind himself that, even if it moved like Harry Potter, it was a fraud.

"Malfoy, you won't kill me," it said as if speaking to an angry child. "I know you won't."

"I said _be quiet_," he responded, glaring openly. "I'm on to your game, mimic, and my patience is wearing thin. _Turn _and _leave _before I feed you to the wildlife."

The creature smiled something nervous and cliché, like he was some male protagonist dying for his cause. "All threats, no follow-through."

Draco's hand never trembled and he wouldn't admit defeat under torture, but he did lower his wand when facing the aura of the idiotically faithful hero. No one but Potter could look like such an…

"Imbecile." Yes, that's the word.

The man of interest laughed shakily, running a hand through his unruly hair.

"Christ, Malfoy, I really thought you were gonna—" It was the sudden lurch forward that caught Draco by surprise, and the curse left his lips before anyone could stop him. The jet of venomous green magic shot forward, knocking the approaching man arse over elbow. When the dust settled, Potter lay sprawled on the ground, motionless.

"Oh Merlin, no…" He rushed to the fallen hero, feeling every bit like the distraught heroine. Staring down at Potter, so ashen and crumpled, he feared the worst. Draco knelt down and grabbed the hero by both shoulders, shaking him viciously. Potter lolled about like a beaten ragdoll, his eyes rolled up into his head.

_I killed him…What have I done?_

His mind was a muddle of partial thoughts, half-corroded by an onslaught of numbness. He kept staring at Potter, at the body, his thoughts trapped in an endless loop. He kept replaying the moment in his mind: the lurch, the curse, Potter falling and back to the beginning. He murderedthe one person known for cheating death, and now he was doomed to rotting the rest of his life in a barren soul until society showed mercy on him.

He would eventually be executed.

His mother couldn't take losing both her husband and son the same way.

Draco had just cursed whatever happiness his family managed to scrape together in the aftermath of the war.

Now Potter….Harry…he was….

"Malfoy…" Relief couldn't begin to describe what he felt. "You prick."

A beat of silence.

"You know, I'm not so sure you weren't better dead," he deadpanned.

"I'm seriously thinking about all the ways I could make you shit your own teeth—"

"No 'hello'? Not even a simple 'Good afternoon, Malfoy, you look strapping today'."

"Fuck you. You tried to kill me, so you can't ask for jack shit_._"

They shared a comfortable silence, both agreeing to avoid holding the other at wandpoint in the near future. Draco lifted himself off the ground and offered Potter a helping hand by way of apology. They dusted themselves off, though he watched the raven-haired oddity from the corner of his eye. He didn't look as though he'd just escaped death—again—nor did he seem fazed by the entire experience. In fact, Potter only seemed determined to retreat inside of the manor before anything else stopped him. Swallowing his pride, Draco took a massive step out of his comfort zone.

"Oi, Potter," he snapped, jutting out his chin and steering clear of any eye contact.

"Don't even think about apologizing, young master," Potter smirked in a particularly Slytherin manner. "You owe me."

**

* * *

**

**17:23 pm : November 7****th**** : Malfoy Manor **

It could be argued that Harry faked his own death simply to have one Draco Malfoy indebted to him.

Of course, the person arguing such a point would be absolutely right and would thereby have to be silenced.

The truth was, no one in all of Britain had better access to the written knowledge of the darkest wizards in history than the twenty-something year old sitting across from him. It was clear to him that Hermione couldn't salvage the last publically owned text on doppelgangers. That meant choosing between him and her husband, who would lead the raid of the Hogwarts library—Harry knew where he stood in that situation. Harry visited the most well known dealers of rare and unsavory texts under heavy glamour, repeating the same phrase:

"I want anything you have about the Doppelganger Phenomenon."

Usually, they answered with a blank stare or mocking laughter, crooning "Fresh outta stock, and I ain't expecting any more shipments. Why don't you just head on home?"

Harry often resorted to threats and flashing the occasional Galleon. However, he soon learned it was useless. In collectors' shops all over Britain, the Ministry seemed to have been one step ahead of him in removing any books relating to the aether. The people simply gave up their copies, not wanting trouble with the government, and not having any real reasons to keep them in the first place. Plus, the books were uncommon to _start_ with, so it didn't take long for him to run out of options.

In a fit of desperation, he went into work and planned to confront Minister Shacklebolt as innocuously as a Girl Scout in the summertime. Surely such a powerful and sympathetic man, as well as a long time friend, would see things his way and allow him to take an insignificant tome or two out of the lot—especially if Harry presented his argument like the seasoned adult that he was.

"What the hell is happening under my nose, Kingsley?" Granted, he may have been a smidge tactless in his approach.

"Calm yourself, Harry," Kingsley replied, spelling the doors to his office closed to signal that they not be disturbed. "What's brings you here?"

"The books are being confiscated in a large scale seizure, and I, the _Head Auror, _haven't been told a thing. I'd like to know why that is."

The Minister sighed, folding his hands on his gleaming oak desk. "Harry, please take a seat."

"I can stand, Minister, thank you. Please answer me." Harry crossed his arms, shifting his weight to his other foot…well, where said foot _should _be.

Shacklebolt remained behind his desk, giving him an understanding if not dissatisfied look. It seemed as though he was considering how his next few words would be received. "Harry, I'm worried about you."

"That's not what I as—"

"Harry, you have to know what you're doing to yourself, what with working long hours and interrogating book keepers on your time off." The young hero pretended he wasn't surprised, taking Kingsley's probing gaze in stride. "I'm going to be honest here and let you know that I've asked a few Aurors to keep an eye on you—"

"You've turned my department into some sort of secret police force for your own, _selfish _use."

"It was for your own safety. You're going down a dark road, researching creatures of death, demons that nobody has business knowing about." His delivery was temperate yet firm, and obviously rehearsed. Harry felt almost insulted that he wasn't expected to recognize false concern when it was so blatant.

"Quite frankly, my friend, I think you could use some time off, to heal after the mess on Halloween. You had a panic attack, and even if the Healers say that you didn't have any underlying conditions, it would make me feel at ease if went home for necessary rest."

Harry knew from Kingsley's body language that the man was guarded, and he wasn't going to draw any more information from him. The wise thing to do would be to back down in hopes of avoiding anymore suspicion. "How long would you like me to rest, sir?"

They shared equally unconvincing grins. "As much time as you need, Auror Potter."

Harry requested a month's reprieve from work, right off the bat. It gave him enough time to either figure out a new course of action, or fade away completely in the comfort of his own home. He'd resigned himself to having done his part and would've disappeared quietly, but he had to try asking Hermione one, last time. She was his only chance, but turned him down yet again.

That's when he saw the platinum-blonde in his periphery; he'd been eavesdropping on their conversation, but what started as anger turned in an inkling of hope, and then forced into motion the birth of a most desperate idea. You see, the young hero had something of an epiphany in that moment: mainly that his body was degenerating into nothingness much too quickly for his liking. With the prospect of total dissolution drawing closer to inevitable, he had more initiative to save himself than he had left of his pride as the savior he never asked to be. As he chased down his last resort, he found himself thinking:

_Malfoy wouldn't take this laying down! Sure, he wouldn't be the first to dive into battle, but I'll be damned if he wasn't clever, in an underhanded way. I've only ever seen him at someone else's mercy _once, _and that was to keep his family alive. Always scheming, trying to twist the situation in his favor. How come I didn't see this before: Slytherins were slimy gits because it kept them on bloody top! I have to think like Draco Malfoy! _

In less than an hour, Harry managed to pull a miracle out of his hind end—no dumb luck, just right plotting. Taking advantage of his haggard appearance, he played on Malfoy's human side, which he'd glimpsed briefly in St. Mungo's. That day seemed to happen in another age, but every emotion he remembered on Malfoy's part worked well against him. Originally, he planned to play up being sick with some unknown disease—as he very well could be, in retrospect—and have Malfoy offer him access to his library of his own accord. Unfortunately, he didn't expect a wall of mirrors, nor did he factor in the mystery of his reflection having vanished. He also failed to determine just how much his muse's preservation instinct outweighed the goodness of his heart. He didn't want to sound self-serving, but Harry thought that Malfoy might've given him a little more consideration, and he was genuinely hurt when the man started calling him names and threatening to kill him.

It all seemed much more hurtful than it did when they were kids.

Regardless, Harry realized that he had three options: fight, run, or call the bluff. If he took away Malfoy's wand by force, he'd only succeed in scaring him off. On the other hand, if he ran away, he would be giving up any chance of finding out what was happening to his body. Sighing, he took the leap of faith and could've kissed the man when he started to lower his wand.

Of course, the entire universe then laughed in his face and his scarf, which had fallen when the rich prat threw him, decided to wrap around his foot. He lost his balance, and a conveniently jumpy Draco Malfoy, spooked by movement, fired off the most infamous Unforgivable. He heard the curse before he saw it come his way.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The wand spat green sparks, and due to a last-minute dive, missed his right shoulder by half a hair. In a flash of brilliance, Harry saw the rest of a new plan pan out before him. He flung himself back, playing dead. Malfoy cast a shadow over his face when he ran up to him, and it took all of the tricky hero's willpower to stay limp when being rattled about like a dead squirrel. Despite that, he trooped through it, then lay still a while longer to allow his "demise" time to sink in. Then, before Malfoy had the chance to dispose of his body, Harry made an unbelievable recovery from the grips of death, thus coming round circle to them at a standoff outside of his library doors.

"You can't be serious, Potter."

"I'm nothing but, Malfoy. Attempt of murder is a serious crime, on top of assaulting an Auror." He tried his best not to bask in his own brilliance. "If you add the fact that I'm Harry Potter…"

He let the threat hang over both of them. Yes, he felt guilty, especially when Malfoy receded into his hard shell, refusing to show any emotion. Harry bit down on his tongue in an effort to not apologize and forget his entire plan. His newfound analytical powers were being wielded for evil—dirty, self-serving evil. Nevertheless, he'd never felt such pride in knowing that he created the plan, such anticipation to see if he could honestly manipulate another person to such an extent.

"Fine, arsehole. What do you want from me?" The rush from being so close to his goal almost led him astray. He wasn't out of the woods yet.

"Promise that you'll help me in every way possible whenever I ask," he bid. Of course, the price would be too high.

"Absolutely not! I won't agree to being your slave!"

"Are you sure? You know that you won't stand a chance in front of the Wizengamot should I press charges." Harry didn't even know he would go so low as to blackmail someone, but there it was. "You could start by showing me all of your books about the Dark Arts, and we can move on from there."

"I'd rather die in Azkaban than play servant," Malfoy spat, looking at him as if he were a true monster. That look burned into his conscious. He would never forget it. "If you wanted to figure out what the hell you were, I suggest soul-searching, because you're not getting anything from me. You've got some nerve acting so—"

"Arrogant?," Harry sighed, dropping pretenses. He'd had enough of his own actions."You know what, Malfoy, I couldn't live with myself knowing that I sank below even _your_ expectations."

Harry used to subsequent silence to gather his thoughts, but a growing part of him screamed that he could still go through with his plan. Apparently, once he started scheming, it couldn't be turned off. Desperation had actually opened up a whole new portion in his brain that saw everything as a potential advantage. The hero had tasted the cutthroat attitude of men with nothing left to lose, and it frightened him beyond comprehension to have found that in himself. To have uncovered it, nurtured it, and see it yield results as well as they did: a couple of days ago, he was willing to die silently, but now…He couldn't fathom the lengths he would go to, he had gone to, just to be standing so close to another chance.

Harry felt scared more by the fact that he had to convince himself that manipulating another person's situation was wrong.

"Potter! I'm talking to you!"

"Huh?" Harry snapped out of his soliloquy, remembering he was loitering in a hallway in Malfoy Manor. Its young master stood before him, hands on both hips in an oddly effeminate way.

"Merlin, you weren't even listening to me!"

"You shouldn't nag, Malfoy. It makes you look like a disgruntled housewife." The conflicted Auror leaned off of the wall, deciding to make his leave before he was thrown out yet again. "I'll see myself out. Sorry for, y'know, being a douche bag. I won't say anything to anyone, or press any charges; you can live safe another day."

He only made it a few paces when he heard giant doors swing open, releasing a gust of wind smelling of old parchment and candle wax. He turned on one heel, coughing in the stagnant air from the now opened library. Draco Malfoy stared at him from the massive doorway, attempting to seem casual with a forest of ten-foot tall bookshelves brimming with everything a wizard would ever need to know. Through the ceiling high windows, he could see setting sun glow off of the surface of a small lake that sat peacefully beside a magnificent garden. The crystal chandeliers lit up on their own, creating the perfect environment for hours of quiet reading. Staring on in astonishment, not trusting himself to speak, Harry asked for an explanation with his eyes.

"You almost had me, Mr. Head Auror," Malfoy stepped into the room, his shadow on cream marble floor receding over the threshold. "For one, delusional minute, I thought you actually had the balls to stand up, tackle, threaten and then blackmail a Malfoy, all in the same day. That would've been quite the feat."

Harry stayed in the hallway, unsure of what would happen next. "Well, three out of four isn't bad."

"It's nothing compared to going the full mile, Potter." Malfoy's head popped out the doorway, gray eyes seemingly laughing at him. "Do you want to see my library, or would you rather stand gaping for the rest of the night?"

Harry didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so he settled for burying his face in his scarf and walking forward. As soon as he cast a glance over the bookshelves, filled with untouched writings in leather bindings, he knew he'd given a second chance. In that room lay the secret about the Doppleganger Phenomenon: what is was, how it affected him, and how it could be undone. All of the answers were right there, waiting to be uncovered.

"I suppose I wouldn't have gotten this far if I'd just asked nicely?"

"Possibly," Malfoy shrugged. "The joke's on you, though."

"How so?"

"This library has over 18,000 books, most of them about the Dark Arts. If you're looking for anything specific, it'll take years to sort through it all on your own."

They shared a look, green met gray, hero and villain working side by side for the greater good of saving Harry's ass. "Interested in a little volunteer work, Malfoy?"


	6. Ignorance Is Bliss

**Chapter Six: Ignorance Is Bliss **

"_Every human being is born with a doppelganger. They live in the ether, and on the day a person is supposed to die, they trade places with your reflection. When the person and their doppelganger meet face to face through a mirror, it signifies the set date and time of death."_

**_

* * *

_**

"**Hmm?"** The Prince halted in his casual page-flipping. He brought the yellowed page to the tip of his nose and examined it more closely. His sharp eyes reread twice before his pupils narrowed to disgruntled slits. **"Well, that can't be right."**

An emergency meeting was in order.

The gentleman marked the page, and with a groan, hoisted the massive book from his lap onto the desk. He reached into a drawer with his free hand, pulling out a polished cigar box. Inside was an array of ashes in glass vials, and of them he chose one stopped with a piece of carved bone. He rarely used it, but he deemed his current situation in need of immediate action. Flipping it open with his thumb, he conjured a stone divining pool he kept on hand for summoning, in particular.

He sifted a little ash into the swirling, technicolor water and watched it spread over the surface. Running his claws along the rim, he waited earnestly for his guest to arrive.

The reaction started slow, with passing images of a black hood or the traditional scythe. Soon enough, a skeletal hand exploded from the water and grabbed the Prince by one of his horns. A moment later, he was dragged into the pool up to his waist, gazing into the empty eye sockets of his associate.

"**Help me, you fool," **the creature ordered in a wraithlike voice.

The Prince held fast, and pulled his old friend from the depths of the portal. Once they were both steadied in his study, he extended a gracious hand in greeting. His guest waved it away and circled him impatiently, surrounding them in the heavy smoke that made up his lower half.

"**Spare me the pageantries. Why have you called me here, Sigmund?" **

The Prince grinned with a mouthful of pointed teeth. **"You're always such a card, Earl. You mean to tell me you're not the least bit cheerful to share a hardy hello with your dear companion?"**

"**Hmph! I'd rather see you burn." **It glided over to the desk, gesturing towards the book laying there. **"You've been reviewing my work. What grievances do you have?"**

"**Oh, none at all! You're as much of a genius as you've ever been."** The Prince blew some ash off of the sleeve of his white suit jacket.

"**Then why are you WASTING MY TIME, SIGMUND?" **

"**Do relax yourself, old friend. This concerns you just as much as it does little ol' me."** He slid into his leather chair and opened the book with a flourish. On the pages were columns of information labeled in clean penmanship: "NAME OF THE DECEASED", "DATE OF BIRTH", "DATE OF DEATH", "MODE OF DEATH" and "PASSING OF SOUL". It was all straight forward, listing the hundreds of names of those who died in the year of 1998. The Prince then pointed to specific entry that caused him to worry.

**NAME OF THE DECEASED: Harrison James Potter**

**DATE OF BIRTH: July 31, 1980**

**DATE OF DEATH: May 2, 1998**

**MODE OF DEATH: Killing Curse cast by Tom Marvolo Riddle**

**PASSING OF SOUL: October 31, 2005**

The Earl rubbed his jaw, which offered a disconcerting rasp of bone against bone. He then scoffed, pushing the book out of his line of view.

**"****The passing of a human's soul is no problem of mine. Call the Countess if it's the soul that concerns you so very much." **

**"****As a matter of fact, I've done just that."** The Prince called for his second guest to be escorted in. His door creaked open to reveal a petite grandmother figure hidden amongst layers of robes. All that could be seen of her was her wrinkled hands, bare feet and gentle smile. As she walked up to them, the resounding clang of her walking staff against the floor resembled the toll of church bells.

**"****Good evening, Ziggy. And Death is here, as well? What brings you out of your cave so early in the new millennium?" **

**"****Ask your precious prince. He seems to have some vague worry or other."**

**"****Oh goodness, it's probably the ploy of a lonely immortal seeking company."**

The Prince chuckled, standing to bow courteously before the old woman, who giggled in response. Winking, he kissed her hand and offered her his chair. He glanced into the pool resting stagnantly beside him, and used his reflection to straighten his tie. After another few moments of smart grooming, he turned to his gathered company with a somber expression.

**"****Now that you two are here, I'd like you to take another look at the entry." **

The Earl and the Countess examined the book, seeing nothing particularly unorthodox about what was written. True, a soul shouldn't wander about the aether unattended for seven years, but it only entered the afterlife when it felt ready. It was no business of theirs to place a limit on preparing one's self for passing on without feeling any regrets.

While the Countess continued to puzzle over the problem, the Earl demanded their host end his senseless theatrics, to which the former agreed.

**"****Ziggy, I don't see anything out of the norm here. What exactly has you so troubled?"**

The Prince sighed and hung his head in a show of despair.

**"****As it were, the doppelganger for the Potter boy is unaccounted for."**

The old woman threw back her head and laughed from the pit of her stomach. She hopped out of her seat and hobbled across the room to pat her companion on the back with a hardy thump. **"Of course it is, you big ham. The soul is at peace, so the 'ganger disappeared. It's how our system works. Gracious me, if you wanted to invite someone all the way down here to cry on their shoulders, you could've at least spared Death the commute." **

**"****Yet again, our idiot prince outdoes himself." **The Earl brewed in his anger, which tumbled in black clouds across the floor as he stormed towards the exit. **"Complaining about losing another one of his toys. Everything has an expiration date, Sigmund. The quicker you understand that, the less trouble you cause me."**

**"****I believe I said a doppelganger was unaccounted for. I've said nothing of it having dissolved into raw material. I of all people would have known if it had."**

His words made the Earl pause. **"What lunacy are you spouting this time?" **

**"****Allow me to reiterate: it would seem as though one of my creations has escaped." **

The Countess lowered herself back into her seat, sensing them finally reaching the focus of their discussion. Leaning her staff on the desk, she ran her fingers over the edge of the page. The escaped creature should've known better than to simply _leave _without notifying anyone. Fortunately, they wouldn't have to worry about the one lost spirit wreaking havoc for much longer. The Countess intervened in the argument that had spurred between her two colleagues.

**"****It doesn't matter if it escaped for a month or two. Soon enough, it'll turn into raw material and that'll be the end of that. Now, are there any **_**other**_** issues we need to discuss? Unlike some people, I don't have servants to do my job for me while I'm dillydallying about." **

**"****None to my knowledge, my darling." **

**"****Okay, well let's compare notes just to be sure—"**

**"****I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!" **Patience suitably worn thin, the Earl swung open the double doors to the Prince's study, terrifying the attendants milling around in the outer chamber. The sudden appearance of Death itself ended any conversations happening amongst them. Like a storm cloud, he powered through until he met resistance at the final exit. He struggled with the towering doors, only to be thrown back by an equally violent force. He whipped around, ordering the Prince to open the door.

**"****My dear Earl, we need to talk about this. What if another one of my little devils managed to slip out from right underneath my nose?"**

**"****I DON'T CARE! It's you who monitors **_**your **_**creatures, not me. My job involves a burning shelter in London and twenty-three deaths that need my attention."**

The Prince frowned, taking on an intense yet distant air. Consumed by a thought, he turned back to his desk and opened the death log to a different year.

**"****Countess, do you, by any chance, know today's date?" **

She brought a crooked finger to her chin. **"It should be around the sixteenth of November." **

**"****Thank you, sweetheart," **the Prince responded, turning to that precise day of the month. **"Twenty-three." **Growling under his breath, he slammed the book closed.

**"Do pardon me if I seem a little ruffled, but I could've sworn…" **He trailed off, pulling another log from the shelves behind him. In a rush, he flipped to the exact same date of the same year, mumbling under his breath. **"Sixteenth of…in the fifth year of the second millennium A.D…London, England…Ah! Our Holy Mother of Grace Homeless Shelter burns down in a fire three minutes before noon; twenty-**_**two**_** persons perish in the flames." **

The Earl fell far short of amused. **"Are you trying to say that my note-keeping is flawed?"**

**"****I'm afraid that may just be the case. According to my records, only twenty-two people burned to in that fire, meaning someone cheated death ****again**_**.**_**" **

**"****SILENCE! No one cheats Death!" **The Earl hoisted his scythe high above his head and brought it down with a gust of wind, splitting the room down the middle. The fissure spit forth flame and acrid smoke, and reaching down into the human realm, he gathered the screaming souls of the deceased. Upon entering their world, the human souls curled in on themselves and the Earl took attendance. In a moment of disbelief, the immortal lowered his scythe. **"I count twenty-two souls. The hog prince was correct." **

The Prince looked into his notes, choosing to ignore his associate's name calling. He counted the names carefully, read those listed in the his log, and frowned even more. **"I count twenty-two deaths as well. It seems someone didn't die when they were supposed to, old friend." **

"**This cannot be." **

The Countess, who had been silent up to that point, surreptitiously slid the Prince's log across the desk to obtain a better view. Out of curiosity, she flipped to the original entry for May 2, 1998, only to find it missing. Following an impulse, she compared the two logs side by side as she blew through them. The name Harrison James Potter reoccurred multiple times in Death's log, beginning on October 31st, 1981 and continuing up until seven years ago. However, when she looked into Ziggy's log, the name failed to appear even once. Smiling to herself, the Countess figured that the one Harry Potter must've cheated death so often, the Earl simply took to assuming it was a different person each time—profession pride, most likely.

_Surely, the twenty-third soul must be of the same vein as young Mr. Potter. _

**"****Ziggy, sweety," **she interjected.

**"****Yes, my awe-inspiring muse of a Countess?" **

**"****How exactly do you record deaths in your log?" **

The Prince perched himself on the corner of his desk, one leg crossed over the other. He beamed down at the old woman for showing interest in his work. In a heartbeat, he dropped his previous train of thought and moved on to abridge his noting process for the Countess.

It would be a crime to bore a fine lady with technicalities.

**"****Simply put, I see my log as a blank canvas, and my doppelgangers are my paintbrush. For every physical death, they report to me. Only with their reports can I portray the bigger picture, that being the profile of the deceased. If my doppelgangers do not tell me themselves that their assigned human has departed from life, then I trust that it is not so." **

**"****Ridiculous," **remarked the Earl.

The Countess regarded him with distaste. **"That's rude. Why is his method so wrong?"**

**"****It takes too much correspondence, makes too much unnecessary noise. Hundreds, if not thousands of creatures speaking all at once, and on a daily basis no less? I say as soon as a doppelganger looks a human in the eye, record the death and let the rest fall into place."**

**"****Communication is the key to any proper relationship, my dearly revered Earl. Otherwise, I'd have discrepancies in my notes, and that's just crude." **

The Countess stayed the Earl with a patient hand before he could accumulate enough rage to cause her prince physical harm. Absorbing all of the information, she pieced together a picture of how a doppelganger—and as of noon that day, two doppelgangers—managed to escape without being noticed.

**"****Ziggy, dear, is it possible that your little creations might run away while you're waiting for them to come to you?"**

**"****Hmm…I suppose it is." **

**"****So the Potter doppelganger slipped through the cracks, as could the one belonging to the missing soul from this fire? This isn't a coincidence, honey; it's becoming a little too commonplace." **

The Prince chewed on her words, trying to bring to mind something from his past. The situation sounded awfully familiar, but he had been alive for so long, recalling one experience felt quite like remembering a dream. Considering his meticulous record keeping, he must've written down the memory in question at some point. In fact, he was sure he did: he vaguely recollected travelling to the human realm, to Germany, searching for an object or perhaps a person, there was running, and once he found what he was looking for…he wrote everything down somewhere…

**"**…**A red book. The last time a doppelganger escaped, I think I kept a journal of the event and a few of my personal theories. Yes, I even signed it with my name so I would recognize out of a pile.." **

**"****Convenient enough. Where is it?"**

**"****That, my darling, is something I wish I knew." **He smiled in apology. **"I lost it centuries ago." **

**

* * *

**

**02:47am : November 16****th**** : Malfoy Manor **

Harry rubbed his tired eyes, hoping against hope that he could return a little moisture to them.

Both he and Malfoy were in for yet another all night study session, making it the third one the week. They had set to researching, praying the venture would relatively quick if they only looked for books about the aether. Unfortunately, Malfoy soon remembered that his father held a particular interest in the fifth element, which worked both in the favor and to their demise. After the fifth night of nothing but cover to cover reading, Harry slapped together a spell for cataloging books by order of importance.

Of all the books in the library, only those relating to mythical creatures and the aether would be sorted into their pile for reading. From there, they focused on chapters centered around the words "doppelganger", "double", "twin" or "reflection", though they had yet to come across anything matching Harry's condition. Since last Saturday, his body deteriorated even more, the fade spreading up from his feet to consume anything below his knees. He tried willing it away, and Malfoy even offered a few choice slaps to combat the effect, but it was to no avail. It seemed as though any solution they could find would be in one of thousands of books.

"Malfoy," he yawned in his partner's direction. The young master had fallen asleep in his chair, and jerked awake with his face buried in another book. "You dozed off for a minute."

"I _know _that, Potter," he spat, too tired to stretch. "The question is, why haven't you?"

"I can't sleep without losing more of my legs. It's safer to nap in intervals rather than sleep through an entire night." Harry smirked to himself. "Constant vigilance."

"What? Oh, never mind." Malfoy propped his head on his elbows, pointing at the mountain of notes in between them. "Find anything important yet?"

"Disappointingly little, I'm afraid," he fiddled with the feather of his quill. "Basically, none of these books mention the Doppelganger Phenomenon, and anything close to it is all about death or grave misfortune. It's all rather depressing, to tell the truth."

"Okay, maybe we wrote something down in a half-conscious stupor, or we skipped an important chapter in one of the larger tomes." Harry offered the blonde a look of pure hopelessness.

"So what now? Do we _reread _all of these books," he nodded at the fort they'd built from the useless books. "Or do we just go through both of our notes, running around in circles until we finally collapse from overwork?"

"How about this, Potter: you stop your griping and crack open another book? Don't tell me you're giving up already." Malfoy summoned a house elf and asked for another pot of caffeinated tea. "I'm not wasting my time helping you just to let you come up short."

Harry leaned back in his chair, staring at the man buried in his family's books for his sake. Smiling to himself, he found that having Malfoy there, giving his all, constantly replenished his will to keep trying. They'd definitely made something of their slipshod friendship. He'd told him about his dream days ago, due to the strict condition of their agreement: be completely honest.

The look on his former enemy's face when he shared his encounter with the other Harry was hard to place: it resembled a spectrum of all the emotions between suspicion and concern. One day, he caught the other man watching him from across the library, brow creased in deep thought. Harry felt that Malfoy had an inkling of what was afflicting him, and he was studying more to prove it than he was to find an answer altogether. Recently, the feeling grew into a certainty, and eventually he would have to bring it up, as per their agreement. If he didn't, Harry would have to confront him, and weeks of paranoia-fueled insomnia didn't bode well for Malfoy's wellbeing in that scenario.

"Aha!" Harry was shocked out of his reverie.

"What 'aha'? What'd you find?"

Malfoy turned on him, grinning manically while thrusting a book into his face. It was more of a relic, really, bound in cracked, red dragon hide with a title written in faded gold print. However, what came across as worn to Harry registered as priceless to his company.

"This is _exactly _what I've been looking for! It was right here the whole time, right under our bloody noses!" Malfoy sensed Harry wasn't nearly as excited as him, and seemed to take offense. "What, Potter, have you nothing to say? I just saved your friggin' life, Golden Boy!"

"What's so amazing about this old thing?" Harry grabbed it to keep Malfoy from shoving it in his eye by mistake. "Were you really searching for one book in this entire library, you nut?"

"_Look at the bloody cover!" _

Harry did just that and found it less than extraordinary: **Journal 1792-1796**.

"I don't see the big deal. It's just a diary."

Malfoy cuffed his ear, still smiling in that increasingly disturbing way. "The _author_, you horribly thick-headed idiot!"

"'Dr. Sigmund von Doppelgaenger'? Who's he?"

"Who _is _he? He was possibly the world's only expert in spirit doubles, so much so that they were _named _after him!"

The words found purchase in Harry's sleep-addled brain, and he couldn't stop the resulting fit of laughter. Finally, they've found it! He freely felt the answer to all of his problems lay in the pages of the good doctor Doppelgaenger. In his mind, all of his worries were over.

Regrettably, this was only the beginning.


	7. Questions To Be Answered

**Chapter Seven: Questions to be Answered **

_2__nd__, April of 1793_

_I looked through my logs the other day, simply checking on the progress of things, when lo and behold, there was a hiccup in my recordings. In detail, all that can be said with certainty is that one of my darlings failed to report to me, and I worry for her well-being. I promptly set an assistant to summon the confused child, but they returned—in quite a state, I might add—to tell me that she was nothing short of gone from her post, vanished from my sight for more than a month. This is a great folly on my part as a bookkeeper. Perhaps I trusted my dears more than absolutely necessary, or mistreated them in some intangible way that has chased off someone as habitually docile as one of my creations. Alas, what takes governance of my concentrations should be the recapturing of this daughter of mine rather than her reasons for flight to the other realm. May good fortune bless me with a quick search and safe return_.

Harry read the passage, glanced at the cover of the journal and furrowed his brow. After a quick translation charm, this was the only bit he understood completely and even that much made little sense without context. Shaking his head, he shoved his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose and tried his best not to frown. Of course, even with the answer right in his hand, Dr. Doppelganger made it no easier for his audience to sift through his mess of thoughts. It seemed as though the entire first year of the diary entries danced around talk of "releasing his children into the aether," which Harry just took to meaning the good doctor lost several of his kids to some disease or other. The grief must've driven the poor man insane.

"I don't know about this guy, Malfoy," he grumbled, passing over the journal. "What do you make of this?"

Malfoy sneered at him—_probably thinks I'm dense as stone by now—_and snatched up the tattered book for a proper perusal. Boredom made him drop the book and slide it back his way, shifting focus on the cup of tea he was babysitting.

"It's hardly worth harping over. The doctor may have been a genius and a ground breaker, but every wizard that ever associated with him before he disappeared knew he was well off his rocker. Constantly spouting nonsense about this so called lost child of his, while he was never graced with the curse of fatherhood." Malfoy shrugged, scowling at the table. "Keep reading."

Harry watched him, consumed in his own thoughts before he read on.

_15__th__, June of 1793_

_I have tracked her down as far as a homely town in Germany, a pleasant place with green grasses and healthy folk milling about just after dawn. I could see why one of my own would be drawn here. I brought little with me by way of luxuries, just this journal, a few changes of clothing and a handheld looking glass. I do hope I will never find myself in need of self protection, as I despise carrying firearms on my person. I can never wash away the stench of gunpowder from my best coats. _

"Malfoy."

"Keep reading, Potter."

_I asked about the town for a girl of her description—small in stature, wheat brown hair, a rosy complexion and the shyest smile—and was pointed in the direction of the local bakery. I walked by every afternoon for a week, glancing into the window in hopes of recognizing anyone while not being recognize myself. On the fourth day, just this noon, I laid eyes on my dearest creation and almost cried out in pity. As a caretaker watching his gardens wither, I gazed upon my daughter's visage with crippling grief: her skin had lost all appearances of warmth, so soon after she left home; her hair fell frayed and limp down her back, sapped of all the color I meticulously wove into it when she was but raw material in my hands; and her eyes…Oh, let me think not of the look in them when did she return my gaze, sullen and half-mad as it was. For all of the gall I had to take her back with me, had she at least been happy in this strange world, I would have stayed my hand for a year, maybe more. However—and I bow my head in shame of my foolishness—these sad creatures were not meant for freedom of their own design. They fade when left unattended. Just as a marionette is built to dance to the will of another, once it cuts its own strings—_

Harry stopped for a moment, bowing his head to avoid revealing his flushed face. He found himself a bit overwhelmed by a sudden sense of foreboding, as if he shouldn't read one word further. His ears were ringing with the staccato beat of his nervous heart, and before he would regain his composure, he snapped the book shut. He should've been excited that he may be finding some answers: a German girl, centuries ago, may have suffered from his same condition. If he were to read on, he would know for sure what was wrong with him. However, all this talk of the created as opposed to the naturally born…it shook him. He _should've_ been open to new information, even from a madman's diary, though he wasn't.

_I feel like I should already know what he's talking about, and yet…_

"Potter," Malfoy scowled, "Why in Merlin's name are you shaking like you've just seen a ghost?"

"I…I just…" He trailed off, unable to classify exactly what warned him away from the words of Dr. Doppelganger. Malfoy hissed something unintelligible, opening the journal in between them. They sat in silence for a minute, maybe two. He pretended not to notice Harry wiping cold sweat from his forehead. The very thought of being seen so weak embarrassed him, whether it was acknowledged or not, Harry knew he was being silly. He was dying for all he knew, and for fear of a dead scientist's writings he was going to forgo what could be his last chance at answers.

He straightened his back, steeling his expression despite his sick stomach. Harry Potter was no coward, especially about purely imagined consequences. It was a story about a girl and her father—or rather, a magnificent loon who stalked a sick young woman. There was nothing to be afraid of.

He cleared his throat and picked up the book.

_Just as a marionette is built to dance to the will of another, once it cuts its own strings there is holding up the once lifelike creature, rendering it but wood and paint. Yes, 'twas the fate of my dearest daughter, the crazed child she now is. I turned away the moment she saw my face and rushed to the nearest side street. Pulling the looking glass from my waistcoat pocket, I summoned forth a copy of my itinerary. _

_The girl for whom my daughter was crafted went by the name of Aarika Ehrlichmann, the only living relative of the Castiel Ehrlichmann in the North. She seemed a bit of a petulant girl, though of kind heart and pure intentions, when she fell in the street one morning in early March. The poor girl, according to my colleague, was dated to have perished in a terrible carriage incident, trampled to death by horses. Oddly enough (and this I deemed from acute hearsay), she made a glorious recovery. She healed as if by magic and went on to marry the town's baker and live a productive if not tentative lifestyle. Given her recent trauma, relatives conveniently accredited her pallid disposition to a mild trauma. They say her terrible shivers come with remembering the sound of rushing horses, and should she faint, it is but her weak constitution following her near-death experience._

_ "She is fragile, doctor," they tell me with stoic expressions, "Her nerves are frayed, but she is otherwise just the same as always." A well-spun tale indeed, young Aarika. _

"Potter—"

"Don't," Harry snapped. His mouth had long gone dry. "I want to know what happens."

_21__st__, August of 1793_

_ Today marks an event most curious in detail, as it is horrific in nature. I dared to pass by the bakery once this evening, only to find it flooded with people. Men in slippers stood beside women in house robes who patted their fretting little ones in despair. Lawmen littered the crowd, shaking their heads at the broken glass that shone on the cobblestones, reflecting the orange fire of the streetlamps. The display window of the shop lay in pieces on the ground and so disquieted was my heart when I saw naught but the body of a man splayed among day old pastries. A great bellows stuck in my throat and left me without words, and speechless I knelt down beside the dead baker's head. His eyes were almost glowing in frozen terror, as if the last form he gazed upon was the bony face of Death itself. I whispered a few words for the man's wandering soul and wished it steady passage into the hereafter. The Countess will treat him well. _

_ Coming back into myself, I examined the planes of his face, then his chest and hands. The skin of them was torn and bloody from the jagged glass of the window, which he seemed to fling himself into with the whole of his might. His position was that of a rapid cur in mid-crouch, as if he had somehow planned to jump through the front glass and scramble into the streets. Whatever frightened the man into such a shape of right insanity drove him to impale himself and left him for dead. The sight will plague my sleep for years to come. _

_ In his clenched fist, I noticed a bundle of stained cloth with much too familiar a scent to any one of my kind to be left behind. Taking care to remain unnoticed, I wrestled it from the corpse's rigid grasp, offered my deepest apologies and fled to the farthest edge of the town. I sit here now, writing furiously while the memory is still fresh in my mind. Having been alive so long, I am liable to forget this entire ordeal but for the spectacle of the dead baker come morrow. Below I have my theories for later recollection, explained in full to the best of my abilities, as I am determined to record every detail of this event. An unbound doppelganger is unheard of; taking the place of another person is simply madness. The soul is gone, and yet the doppelganger remained, even for so little a time as five months. In my left hand I still hold the apron of Aarika Ehrlichmann, the baker's wife, last worn around the waist of my daughter, my dearest doppelganger. Now, she has faded into the depths of the aether, waiting to be sculpted anew as my many other children have done and will continue to do until the crack of doom. (Rest in peace, dear one.) Surely, the sight of it must have driven the baker insane, having shared his life and love with a stranger with the face of a loved one. How awful that must be. How truly, truly awful. _

"Malfoy," Harry rasped. "I think…I think I've read enough."

The other man didn't speak, and Harry couldn't bring himself to steal a glance at his expression. They both drowned in the quiet of the library, in the wake of Dr. Doppelganger's entry. Harry felt Malfoy lean back in his chair, away from him, and pull his pale, thin hand out from underneath his. Loath as he was to admit, he missed the comfort it offered the instant it was gone. When his uncertain companion rose from his seat, muttering something to the tune of being too tired to think, Harry just nodded and stared at his chair for the last few hours until dawn.

* * *

**"****Oh damnation," **the Prince murmured, tapping his claws against his teeth. **"Look what a frightful mess my forgetfulness has made of things." **

**"****I told you those idiotic toys are more trouble than they're worth, in every sense of the phrase," **the Earl groused, irritated at having not yet been allowed to return to work. If not for the prospect of more missing souls, he would've disappeared from the Prince's office hours ago. **"Come now, Sigmund, let us have it: give the name of the escapees. Your worry, as sickening as it is, disallows the rest of us from some honest work. I might as well drag them into the aether myself, for all the good you're doing standing there, quaking in your skin." **

**"****Hush, Earl," **the Countess tutted. Stroking the Prince's arm, she smiled warmly when he managed to tear his eyes from the depths of his pool. **"Ziggy, love."**

**"****Yes, vision of beauty that you are," **he whispered, looking for all the world as a shepherd that has lost his sheep.

**"****Do fetch them, deary, before they cause much more damage to the human realm. As it stands, we have one disappearance to explain away once young Mr. Potter has up and vanished. What is more important is that, for some reason I have yet to discern, the confused 'gangers seemed convinced that they're human." **The Prince frowned in spite of himself. **"Am I wrong?" **

**"****I'm afraid that…I have no idea whether to agree with you or throw all caution to the wind for the sake of observation. That is a doppelganger in essence, but in manner…why, I almost fail to see how he is **_**not **_**Harry Potter." **

He scratched a horn, a habit that attested to his deeply troubled mind. The memory of the event came rushing to him the moment he laid eyes on the cover of his forgotten journal, much to his relief and chagrin. True, he had encountered unbound doppelgangers once before, but that was only _one _precedent out of possibly hundreds. True, yet again, that he'd the tendency to notice discrepancies in his notes fairly quickly, but what did that mean when faced with the truth of discrepancy in the first place? He could've easily overlooked another doppelganger, maybe two or three or a dozen, without ever thinking to check up on them. Perhaps the Earl had a point in saying that he trusted his beloveds too much, that his reign on them was too loose when compared to the iron-clad despotism that prevailed in the enterprise of death.

Then, aside from his open relationship with his creations, there arose the dilemma of one Harry Potter. He cheated death at least twice in his lifetime, and in his death, his doppelganger managed to evade detection for _seven years. _That is no small feat to scoff at, being that his predecessor only lasted a period of a few months before meeting her ultimate end. _Seven years _this spirit double existed with the appearance, mannerisms, even _memories _of its human counterpart. The Prince couldn't stop reeling in the fact that one of his sons, now _two _of them, slipped from under his protection centuries after what he had thought to be an isolated incident. The original Harry Potter, the actual human soul, has passed on; he accepted his replacement of seven years and left him to…what? To take his place, or rather, to keep it? Who could possibly be satisfied with leaving behind his human life to a replica of himself, an inhuman twin of sorts? He will not be mourned, will not be grieved for, as no one would ever know of his departure from the corporeal realm into the afterlife. Who would find that reality in any way _agreeable_? Who would prefer to be forgotten by all of those who once held him dear? Who?

**"****Harry Potter, apparently," **the Prince whispered, then winced. In his spiraling thoughts, he gnawed at his bottom lip in a most ungentlemanly fashion. Then, with a grand sweep on his coattails, he donned his hat and coat, beating a hasty path towards the door of his office.

**"Ziggy, where are you off to with such a wild look in your eye?"**

**"****I'm off to collect a pair of lost lambs before they wonder past the den of a most ravening wolf." **Followed by the crack of his heels against the black granite tile, the Prince flung open his front doors to reveal the dark, squirming aether that was the land of the dead. He apologized to the grinning Countess and the aggravated Earl half-heartedly, as his mind was still elsewhere, but more here than there, if anywhere at all.

* * *

**11:11 am : November 17th : Department of Mysteries **

The Prince stepped out from behind a ragged black curtain of some type, or more precisely, a veil. Peering around the large, dimly lit room, he quickly realized he wasn't alone, but surrounded by people in deep blue robes. They watched him with waning surprise in their eyes, as if the novelty of him walking through their archway wore off to be replaced by a steady preparedness.

He frowned, confused, as they brandished sticks of lacquered wood, seemingly waiting for the imposing, dark-skinned man in the back to give a signal. With a shock of realization, the Prince leaped off of the dais as a swarm of spitting red sparks came rushing at him. His sudden movements scattered the robed people, who silently parted before him like the sea of shadows before closing in on all sides. They didn't speak, but raised their wooden sticks once more, this time on edge.

It took for the Prince to appreciate his situation: these humans were wizards, and for whatever reasons, they thought that he couldn't see them. Once he took that in, he smiled something awful, all shiny teeth and flashing eyes. The entire front line backpedaled furiously, and just as they shot more red magic at him, he disappeared. The wizards knocked each other unconscious with their targetless spells, flying this way and that with the force of their attacks. Above their heads, the Prince grinned grimly to himself as he watched the humans trip over each other.

_**An ambush, if ever I saw one,**_he thought, striding towards the exit on thin air. _**Since when did the humans discover this entrance into the aether? Oh, so many questions with so little answers. **_

On a whim, he looked down on the scene of panicking wizards and witches in a fit trying to find him, while removing their sleeping comrades from the danger of being stepped on. Woven in with the shouts and stomps, the Prince caught the sound of sobbing, the unmistakable crying of a child.

One of his creations was nearby.

With a touch of urgency, he visually sifted through the mob of robes and flashing spells for a noticeably small figure. Tracing the sound to one corner of the room, the Prince tidied himself up, working out the wrinkles in his suit and putting on his kindest smile. Then, making himself truly unnoticeable, he landed softly beside the scrawny child huddled into himself. The boy couldn't be more than ten years of age, and his hair was the brightest shade of blonde he'd ever seen. Coupled with a pair of hazel-green eyes, the Prince was almost upset with himself for having failed to notice this masterpiece slipping out from under his wing.

**"****Why, hello there, little one," **he said, kneeling down to the boy's eye level. He tried not to feel hurt when the child tried to fold himself into the wall. **"What is a timid boy like you doing amongst all of these animal humans?" **

The boy shivered, clutching his arms to his chest as he gaped at him. With a furtive peek, the Prince can see that he was faded from the shoulders down.

**"****You don't have to be afraid of me, child," **he coaxed. As a second thought, he held out his hands. Seeing his claws, the boy squeaked, which luckily failed to catch the attentions of the searching wizards. They were momentarily hidden by a large stone pillar, but wouldn't be safe much longer. **"Come, my boy, before we're spotted. Do you honestly wish to stay with these magic users?"**

"They call themselves Aurors," the boy grumbled, glaring at them from the corner of his eye. "They say that, but I don't feel safe at all."

**"****Hmm," **he said. **"I agree whole-heartedly. I find it extremely rude to be attacked without so much as a 'Good day, fine sir' by way of greeting. Animals, the lot of them. We should leave them to make fools of themselves. How say you?" **

The boy quirked a light blonde eyebrow, smirking hesitantly.

_**Perhaps he's already taken a liking to me, after all. **_

"You're a bit odd, demon," the boy said, "but I think I can get used to it if you can help me out of here."

**"****Yes, you lot do have a bit of an affinity for escape," **he grinned, enjoying his charge's light confusion. **"Well, off we are then." **

**

* * *

**

With a snap of his fingers, the Prince brought both himself and the doppelganger child to stand on a paved path leading up to a pair of wrought-iron gates. The sun was high in the sky, shining down bright and watery on the towering hedges bordering the austere family estate laid out before them. Rubbing the boy's shoulder, he smiled, hoping to assuage some of the tension in the boy's shoulders. He couldn't deny that the manor in front of them was intimidating in the best of lights, but the immortal found it soothing to be in the presence of something visibly greater than himself. It was pleasantly sobering, allowing him to focus on the task at hand.

"Where are we?"

**"****If I'm not mistaken in my navigation, we are standing on the property of the Malfoy family." **He felt the boy go rigid. **"We could pop right in, but I think it more polite to knock. Oh my, you're anxious, aren't you?" **

"No," he blurted, snatching his eyes away from the front gates. "I've been here before, that's all."

**"****Another matter most curious." **The Prince frowned, feeling for a moment as though he'd forgotten something terribly important. Shrugging it off for the moment, he tripped the Manor's wards with a tip of his hat. **"I should really keep a list." **


	8. What They Want

**Chapter Eight: What They Want **

He heard the grandfather clock chiming somewhere in the maze of empty corridors around his bedchambers. No one was to disturb, so the balanced music of the time-keeper remained the only indication of a world outside of his closed doors. Except for that, he was utterly alone.

_It's noon. _Draco hiccupped in his grave of throw pillows and down comforters.

_I should go meet mother for tea. I should march out of this room, head held high, and sneer at Potter on the way to the gardens. I should spit right in his face and keep right on walking. I should…I should…_He squeezed his eyes shut, only to meeting Potter's broken expression burnt on the backs of his eyelids. Draco lay awake in the dark for hours, and when there was no more dark came dawn, he manufactured night with his thickest bedclothes. Nothing could rouse him from his rooms, not even the guilt of driving his mother spare with his downtrodden attitude.

_I must be a pathetic sight, indeed. _

Draco felt foolish and betrayed and lost and disgustingly, heartbreakingly alone. He felt as if he'd just watched the last of his species die in the palm of his hand, and no amount of magic or prayer could bring them back. Draco felt blindsided over the fact that Harry Potter, his honest-to-Merlin hero, was gone from this world forever and always. He wasn't even granted the consolation of hatred towards the man dwelling in his library with the face of his savior. For whatever reasons, he couldn't bring himself to despise what Harry Potter left behind in his place. The dream, the fading, it all made sense to him now…to the both of them. Only they knew the truth of what happened to the Chosen One, and only Draco was left to drown in aching loss. The weight of the loss made him feel like a child again, as if was losing his father, his mother and his home in one fell swoop. He'd never felt so alone in his entire twenty-four years of life, nor did he believe he had the capacity to move on. Fate had truly dealt him a crushing blow this time around.

He gave up his fight against the burn of unshed tears and let them fall.

"Master Draco, sir?"

"I was _not _to be disturbed_, _you _hideous_ creature," he hissed in an almost steady voice. The house elf would only see a vehemently tense bundle of bedclothes and still it squeaked like a frightened mouse. As it should.

"M-master, so pleases you, M-m-mistress wish to speak with Master. Speedle say that Master no wants visitors, but Mistress insists—"

"Please move aside, Speedle. He is my son and I will notrequest permission to speak with him."

Draco sighed and curled into a tighter ball, silently berating himself for acting so childish. He shouldn't have to hide from his own mother, but he felt entitled to his right to wallow in the privacy of his own rooms. Knowing the point would be lost on his mother, he ordered the elf back into the kitchens and momentarily surfaced from the depths of his own self-pity. At least with his mother around, he could practice straightening out his and Potter's account of his condition. It'd been reported in the _Prophet _that Harry was on leave due to "suspicious health", and should word get out that he spent over a week of his time in Draco's company, they would need an alibi. Seeing as he wouldn't share Potter's secrets with his mother—he loathed how loyal he was to the man, even now—Draco schooled his face into calm indifference.

_To beguile the times, look like the times* _

Draco extracted himself from his pillows to sit properly on the side of his mattress. His mother, long hair and flowing skirts, settled down next to him, combing through his hair with light fingers. She didn't speak at first, immersed in her fond petting and mild frowning. The gentle woman always had a way of chastising him thoroughly with no words at all. She was upset because he'd fallen into such a sudden depression without the aid of alcohol or women; she was dissatisfied with herself for not taking action sooner; she was confused about hosting Harry Potter in their home for so long without explanation; and she was tired of waiting for her only son to finally decide to talk to his mother of his own accord. Knowing her, she probably made a valiant effort to refrain from asking questions, trusting his judgment, as he was a grown man with his own life to live, but felt that even her patience had its limits. No words were exchanged, but Draco knew how she felt simply because she was present. Her expertise in silently stating her opinion never ceased to amaze him.

"Draco," she said, quiet yet firm. "I am lost as to what to do with you. You've grown more complicated every year. I wish for you to confide in me, as I only have one son in this world and would like to keep him. I don't want to one day wake up to realize that I'm sharing my affections with a stranger."

Draco shuddered, as hard as he tried to do otherwise, and sank into his mother's embrace. Those words hit him harder than she could ever know.

"Mother…" She didn't push him to speak. She just petted his hair and waited. He took a deep breath and tried to pull himself together. After a few false starts, he managed to remember how to speak.

"Mother, I'm sorry for neglecting you. Furthermore, I'm sorry that I can't tell you for what I'm neglecting you—or rather, for whom—at the risk of revealing something it is not my business to reveal."

"Does this, perchance, relate to why Harry Potter has been all but sleeping in your father's library since the beginning of the month?"

He squeezed her hand, but said nothing.

His mother furrowed her brow, slightly put-off at not being answered directly. However, Draco knew that Malfoy line has taught discretion for generations, a fact to which his mother was no foreigner. She took his silence with a nod of understanding, leaving him to his secrets.

"Can you tell me at least how deeply you are involved in his enterprises?"

"I'm not at liberty to say." It was implied that Potter and himself discovered the truth of his…nature together, both baring equal weight in the situation. He had no reason to believe that the Auror had any ulterior motive besides saving himself from an unknown ruin. "I wish I could tell you, but I can't."

She stared at him unperturbedly, silver hair falling in her face as if she willed it to. Quirking an eyebrow like a true Malfoy, his mother continued to look at him until he had no choice but to hold her gaze. She examined him, her pale blue eyes searching his face for something only she knew about. Then placing her cool hands on his cheeks, she smiled her forgiveness. His relief and gratitude was almost palpable.

"I suppose that is all I can ask from you," his mother sighed, rising to her feet. She glided toward him, kissing him on the forehead for good measure. With that, Draco felt some of his somber mood trickle away. "Now do make yourself a bit more presentable, Draco, and quickly."

"Why?"

"A guest and his son arrived at the gate asking for the master of the house. They've been waiting almost a quarter of an hour—it would be discourteous to keep them a moment longer." Before he could inquire about how they were or what they wanted, she had already swept out of his door with an impressive shimmer of silk.

* * *

**"****Mr. Potter, it is a pleasure to see that you're doing well." **Harry faltered, one boot hovering over the first step, when the odd nuances of it, the sound of it, finally registered in his mind. The voice stopped him at the top of the staircase, pouring out from his chest as opposed to falling in from his ears. Fleetingly, he physically understood the intention of the speaker before he actually heard the words.

Turning, he took in the man poised in the middle of the hallway, and quickly realized he was being stared down by a demon in men's clothing. The white of the suit deepened the pearlescent black of its skin, and strangely enough, when it smiled, it managed to appear nothing but excruciatingly curious. Harry tilted his head to one side and observed the demon from a different angle while sliding his hand towards his wand holster. If it decided to attack him, he would be ready.

"How do you know my name?"

In two blinks, the demon was standing on the bottom step, between him and the front door of the mansion. Harry had to create distance between them. The dapper creature bowed low, grinning politely while watching Harry back up into the hallway.

**"****Allow me to introduce myself," **it said, lifting its head high. **"I am Dr. Sigmund von Doppelgaenger." **

"Of course you are." He tried not to laugh, as it would no doubt sound bitter. "Dr. Doppelgaenger dropped off the face of the planet over two hundred years. I don't have time for this nonsense."

Harry walked down the staircase, making sure not to touch the demon as he passed. The air around the stranger smelled of ozone, like the air after a lightning strike. Quickening his pace, he managed to march into the foyer, ignoring the heat of an intense gaze following him to the door.

**"****Pardon my tactlessness, but where exactly do you have to be? I happen to know that your schedule is free for the rest of the afternoon."**

Harry froze with his hand on the door handle. This time, he couldn't keep his mirthless chuckle to himself.

"Should I even ask how you know this?"

**"****I suppose a certain degree of omniscience has some part in it."**

Harry turned. The stranger was no longer smiling.

"What do you want with me?"

The demon gestured to his right with a patient hand. Harry hesitated, gripping his wand fully in one hand, and strode through the waiting doorway. In the next room, he noticed Narcissa Malfoy speaking in hushed tones to another stranger, a boy with the traditional blonde hair. When the child turned to greet them, he was taken aback by the resemblance to Mrs. Malfoy's deceased husband. The likeness was uncanny in the wide brow, the Greek nose and the angled chin. The child had Malfoy blood in his veins, no doubt about it.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Potter," Narcissa hummed, curling a slender arm around the boy's thin shoulders. "I was tempted to send a search party into the library to assure you hadn't been dragged into one of the books."

"I'll pretend I never heard that, Mrs. Malfoy," he said.

"Much appreciated." Then, with a formal look about her, she lifted herself from the ivory-colored divan. "Ah, Draco. We were beginning to worry."

Harry didn't bother apologizing when he turned towards the door. He wouldn't look at Malfoy, wouldn't speak to him. What was he supposed to say, anyhow? "Sorry for impersonating Harry Potter. I didn't mean to, I swear! Hey, I'll disappear soon, and then you can put this whole thing behind you. You've always hated me anyway, right? Now I'll be out of your hair forever." He shook his head, knew he was making a scene, but he didn't care. He wouldn't give himself time to think about what Malfoy silence meant to him. He wouldn't acknowledge the sour taste of bile rising in the back of his throat. He would ignore the pain of hardly being able to keep himself upright as he broke out into a run for the door. He would Apparate home, he would write a few final goodbyes and he would fall into a long sleep. So what if he didn't see sunrise…no matter what, he wouldn't cry.

**"****Mr. Potter!"**

He wouldn't listen.

"Mr. Potter, where are you going?"

He wouldn't stop.

"Potter!"

He _couldn't _stop. He was shaking too hard—the fading was spreading faster. Momentum sent him tumbling forward, and a second later he was kneeling. People surrounded him on all sides. For a moment, his mind clouded over, and he was wandering through a world of stars. Hands were on him, around him, laying him flat and placing a small body next to him. The labored breathing of the child at his side brought him out of the haze enough for him to know that he wasn't going alone.

_I don't want to fade…_

_I want to be Harry Potter…_

_Is that so much to ask? _

_

* * *

_They opened their eyes in unison, two different shades of green staring at the same sea of stars. Two doppelgangers, an adult and a child, simply sat and waited for the numbness in their toes to recede. The oldest wiggled his fingers in the jewel-toned grass and didn't need to glance to sense his companion doing the same.

"We're dead," the boy said. "Aren't we?"

"…I guess so." They sighed.

"What happens next?"

"Our job is done. Our humans are gone. From now on we just…wait."

"To be rebuilt?"

"Yup."

"Oh." The child blew a lock of hair out of his eye and scowled. The gesture struck a chord in the elder's mind, but he couldn't place a name on the face he saw when he closed his eyes. It was much like remembering a dream within a dream. He tried to forget it, but an alarm went off in his head to hold on to the image of the face. Storing the memory of the person away, he hoped that he'd be able to see that person after he was recreated. Unfortunately, he knew being born twice in the same place would take nothing short of a miracle.

"Brother?" He smirked at the name.

"Yes?"

"What was your human like?"

He chuckled. "He was nice. I mean, he was a confused bloke, willing to do anything for what he believed in but far from the sharpest knife in the drawer. Grew up pretty unloved, then he met some good people. The boy died a hero. Though now that I think about it, after being him for a few years, I saw that he never really did what he wanted with his life."

"He…didn't? Did he die before he could?"

"Yeah. Yeah he did."

They listened to the wind in the trees, watching the stars swim past each other. Every light above them was a ball of pure aether, to be shaped into another one of their kind by their prince. Soon, the both of them would revert back to nothing but lights. In fact, it was strange that neither of them had started to dissolve. He asked his company if it was normal.

"I don't know," he responded. "I've never been _here _to experience it. It's like I've been asleep for all this time."

"Me, too." He shifted, sitting cross-legged. "This is odd."

"What?"

"I've never been so awarebefore."

"Hm. Me neither."

They exchanged a worried look, standing up one at a time to observe the heavens above them. It didn't make any moves to pluck them into it, like it was expecting something. Apprehension crept up on them, and the elder was fidgeting in his clothes. He staggered, realizing for the first time that he was wearing clothing: a scarf, a trench coat, denims and boots. His head throbbed and his palms were sweaty. He knew all of this about himself, which he wasn't sure ever happened before. He had a body, a mind, and he couldn't recall _any _doppelganger being so painfully self-aware. They didn't have selves to be aware _of. _They existed because someone else existed; when that person was gone, so were they, and yet…here he was. He existed.

"Kid?"

"Yeah?"

"What's my name?"

"Do we have names?"

"We have to," he clarified. "You and me, we can't exist without names. Right? I mean, if I'm here, and you're here and we _know _we're here, then we have to have names, right? Right?"

"Hold on," the kid flushed, thinking. "We are…what exactly?"

"Doppelgangers."

"Okay, I know that much. Do they?" The child nodded at the stars.

"I don't think they do. If they did, they'd have bodies and thoughts, not just float around shining at each other." The oblivion above them rippled, as if it was agreeing with them.

"These aren't our bodies, though," the kid pointed out. "They belong to our humans."

"Belonged. Past tense. We wouldn't have them if they didn't want us to have them." Suddenly, the universe made sense. "Kid, what was your human like?"

"Mine?" He thought about it for a minute. "Well, he was really unhappy with himself."

"How?"

"He…well, he had the wrong body. He always looked at himself in mirrors when everyone was asleep and cried about how foul it felt. I think he…wanted…to be a she." The kid ducked his head, blushing a deep, shameful red. "And then, during the fire, he just hid himself in a closet and prayed that he'd be born right next time."

"What was his name?"

"Pitney. Pitney Howitt."

The elder doppelganger nodded, spun on his heel and stuck out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Pitney. My name is Harry Potter."

Pitney stared at it for a moment, gnawing on his lower lip. "Harry, I want to keep on living. I want to be human."

"So do I," Harry said, grinning cheekily. "It's good to know that I'm not the only one."

They turned up their faces towards oblivion and allowed the coaxing sensation to pull them off of their feet. The stars glowed bright, gathering around them until they were blinded, seeing nothing but electric blue. They were nervous—they could be breaking a several laws. Was it sanctioned for a human to pass on his life to a doppelganger? Could someone truly to live his life after death?

_I'm sure as hell going to try. _

_I'm not dead yet. _

**

* * *

**

**Sorry for updating so irregularly. I'll warn next time I plan on going on a long absence, but know I fully plan on finishing Doppelganger. I love this story and I want to carry it as far as it can go. Trust me, darlings: this is but the beginning. **


	9. Nightmares at Midnight: King of Hearts

**His Heart On A Platter **

**

* * *

**

"_**Delicious." **_

_ Lips smacking. Laughter. The continued tinkling of forks sinking into meat and knives tapping fine china. He blinked beneath his blindfold; he didn't have to see what they were eating. The smell of cooked meat was enough. _

_**"Draco, you aren't eating. Is the food not to your liking?" **_

_ He tasted the steam wafting from his plate when he opened his mouth to speak. He gagged. A child giggled. _

"_Perhaps he would prefer a lighter meal, Doctor." _

"_**Ah, yes." **__His heart began to race. __**"Of course. How silly of me. Chef?"**_

_Pans crashing. Murmurs. The thrashing of an ingredient forced back into its cage and the half mad chuckling of the head cook. He rattled his restraints. _

_ "Untie me," he said. "Please." _

_ "How cute! Look, Doctor, he's begging!" _

_ The guests murmured and tittered. Someone snickered from behind, clawing at the leather belt around his neck. One twitch and they could nick his jugular. He hoped, but the hand retreated. _

_**"Silly Draco. You can't leave the table until you've eaten your dinner." **_

_Mother screaming. Swears. Footsteps leading out of the kitchen when the screaming cut short. Chuckling. He felt dizzy. Nausea. He heaved, but his stomach was empty. He prayed it would remain so. _

_A puff of cold breath on his face preceded the coppery odor of blood. He whimpered. More chuckling. _

_The clang of the serving platter dropped in front of him scared him out of his skin. They watched him squirm, trying to distance himself from the warmth of the dish seeping through his nightshirt. He couldn't breathe. He was choking on his own heartbeat. Thumping. The rasp of clothes on clothes. Unyielding pressure on his back. Someone was leaning over him. _

"_Dinner's served, Malfoy."_

_He jerked towards the voice. _

"_Potter," he hissed. _

"_Hmm?"_

_He could hardly speak around his bludgeoning heartbeat. _

"Help. Me."

_Laughter. _

"_He wants me to help him! What do you want me to do, Malfoy? Let you go?"_

_Potter's laughter. It killed him. _

"_Tell you what: how about I take off your blindfold? I'd like you to see my best dish." _

_Sweat cooled the cloth across his eyes. The skin beneath was clammy when the air touched it. Suddenly, candlelight. He was too tense to blink. It was quiet except for the thumping. He looked anywhere but at his plate. A boy in a feathered dress. A shadow in a top hat. His mother's body in a birdcage. Anywhere but his plate. _

_Potter wouldn't have that. _

_His head was forced into a cloud of cloying sweetness. He couldn't look away. He couldn't close his eyes. He saw it:_

_Surrounded by garnishing of candied fruit sat his heart still beating. _

"_Bon appétit." _

_

* * *

_

**N/A: School has started up again and I won't be able to write a longer chapter for another two weeks or so. This is the first of the Nightmares at Midnight drabbles. There are underlying meanings in every one, some much more obvious than others. **


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